The Hunger Games
by girlontheindex
Summary: Welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games. When Daisy Johnson, a seventeen year old orphan from District 12, volunteers to take the place of the little girl, she is thrust into a world she'd only ever seen on the screen. Fighting alongside fellow District 12 tribute Grant Ward, she finds herself struggling to draw the line between killing him, and falling in love with him.
1. Orphan

**A.N: Okay so this is short, but it's just an introduction. I hope you like this, and there will definitely be more soon. :)**

I am an orphan. An orphan in any other district could perhaps be tolerable, but to be an orphan in District 12 is horrific. I was just two days old when I was discovered in the back of Head Peacekeeper, Jasper Sitwell's truck on our way towards the Capitol. A serious and unyielding man, I've been told he handed me off to a passerby in a heartbeat, asking no questions. This stranger, who now held my fate in his hands, was called Beale Campbell, a balding man, with rosy cheeks, brought me to his house, to the Seam. The Seam is brutal, and harsh, but it's my home. Here his wife, a cold-hearted cow if ever there was one, struggling with a newborn son herself, forced him to take me to the 'District 12 Community Home'. It's basically the term used for an orphanage, just sugar-coated.

The orphanage, on the outskirts of the Seam, is where I have lived for the past sixteen years. Sixteen years of the House Sentinel's barking orders in my ear, sixteen years of a rumbling stomach, and sixteen years of punishments. If there's one thing the orphanage excels in, it's handing out punishments. When I was four I woke up the whole house, screaming because of a horrible nightmare. The Sentinel's, which is what our 'guardians' were known as, decided that I was to be caned across my knuckles twenty times. If I cried, or called out in pain, the count was to begin again. Then, when I was ten, I got into trouble at school for not learning the anthem of Panem. The orphanage were told, and when I returned home, Doctor List was waiting for me, with a hot poker. The worst must have been when I was eight, and I had ever-so casually said at the dinner table that President Malick was a bad man. Doctor List grabbed a hold of my ear and whisked me upstairs. Never had I seen anybody move so quick, especially for an old man. There I was locked in the 'Monster Closet', as us orphans referred to it as, for three days, without food, water, or light. Every now and then I would hear voices, but I wasn't sure if they were from outside the cupboard, or they were inside with me. Ever since then, I have been deathly afraid of the dark. And of letting my tongue slip.

Mother Margaret was quite nice however. She was an elderly woman, who would read us stories, and knit us animals out of old blankets. If any of the orphans were about to receive a horrid punishment, she was there to soften the blow, or stop it if she could. Mary-Sue Poots was what she named me; Mary-Sue after an author of the only book she had in her possession, and Poots because that was the street I was tossed out on to. She loved us all, and cared for us all like we were hers, and in return we loved her back. Shame she died when I was seven. I never knew much about her life, only that she was in love with a man called Steve, who was a hero of some kind.

After Mother Margaret, I never really loved anybody like family. There is Lincoln, the son of Beale Campbell, the kind stranger who dropped me off here. We met in kindergarten, at the age of five. Brought together by our mutual love of tree-climbing and laughing when we shouldn't supposed to, we've remained close friends ever since. He's also from the Seam, and hasn't had an easy life. His father was a warm-hearted man, but his mother is stern and cruel. She can't stand me, and I can't stand her. Lincoln certainly takes after his father, which I'm very glad about.

Lincoln is sort of like a brother to me, and I'm like the sister he never had. Since we were twelve years old, we've been hunting together in the woods. He makes the traps, I shoot the prey. We then both take our winnings to town, or to the Hob, and make a sale. Usually we almost always find a buyer. With what we have leftover, we take back to our respected homes. Of course, I have a lot more mouths to feed. As long as I bring back the squirrel Doctor List loves so much, the orphanage won't report me.

In the house are thirty-one orphans, including me. There would be more, but the children who come to us out of desperation usually die within a week. I barely survived as a baby, being born in the middle of the summer months. Apparently, in District 11 there was a drought, preventing the harvest from being distributed amongst the Districts. The Capitol however, were unscathed, funnily enough. I bet none of their children have gone to bed with an empty stomach before. I was amongst eight babies brought in that year, and one of only two who survived. The other orphan, Matthew Murdock, is now blind and condemned to a life of destitution.

I'm second oldest, after Matthew, and will shortly be expected to leave. At eighteen I will be thrown out onto the streets once again, and told to find a home, get married, or simply 'make-do'. Lincoln jokes that I can always marry him and share his home.

Being one of the eldest, I have a huge responsibility. The younger orphans turn to me if they can't sleep at night, or they miss their parents. Katya Belykov, who is now twelve, came to the orphanage when she was six, after losing her father, Justus, in a mine explosion, (the same one which killed Lincoln's father) and losing her mother, Eva, to a drunken Peacekeeper who let the power and the booze get to his head. I think of Katya as my little sister. I have cared for her since I was eleven, dressing her, washing her face, feeding her, wiping her tears, tucking her in at night, reading her stories just as Mother Margaret had done for me. Katya certainly didn't deserve to be alone, without a family. She was the kindest, most generous, most courageous girl I had ever met.

That's why the idea of her name being entered into the reaping made me feel physically sick.

For me, it was my fifth year. Doctor List saw that I was feisty, and strong-willed, therefore thinking I was capable of survival in the Games. Every year, since I was twelve years old, I've had to put myself forward for a tesserae, five times. Being from the orphanage, technically I can sign up for thirty-one tessera, thirty-six if you count the Sentinel's. Five was considered a decent amount, however. This year, my name would be placed in the bowl thirty times. If I made it to next year, it would be thirty-six.

I'd pleaded, and pleaded with Doctor List to allow Katya to be counted out of having a tesserae, and having her name entered only once; the minimum. List had agreed, telling me that I owe him five of the plumpest squirrel's I can find, or I better pray that my name gets called out if he doesn't get them.

Even still, the thought of Katya, good and innocent Katya, entering the Games was gut-wrenching. I've seen twelve-years olds in the Games before, hopelessly frightened and alone, murdered in the most brutal ways imaginable, all in the name of entertainment. I couldn't bear it.

So I did pray. I prayed and prayed that Katya's name would not be called out.


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

**A.N: Hi guys, so I hope you're enjoying this. Have you spotted all my little Marvel connections yet? I'll give you a hint - nobody in this story is a made-up character - or so to speak. Everybody is somebody from the TV show, or thereabouts.**

The day before the reaping, I had to get away from it all. I had to escape.

And escape I did.

I awoke as the dawn did, careful not to stir Katya, who had taken to sleeping beside me, on the same small, creaking bed. Slipping on a pair of tight-fitting, chestnut coloured pants, and a large, knitted jade jumper that had been handed down to me. Lifting my trademark tawny coloured jacket with a white sheepskin collar off of the rotting wooden bench in the corner, I glanced down at Katya, sound asleep in my sheets. she was so small. So young. Tiny strands of her dark hair had fallen into her round, delicate face, and I couldn't resist tucking them behind her ear. Planting a soft kiss on her forehead, I left.

There's one place in the entire District I feel . . . not safe, but whole. I can breathe clean. I can hear clearly. Something about the green of the forest is rejuvenating, after the bleak grey of the orphanage, and the coal dust in the streets. The cries of the miserable are drowned out, the further I delve into the forest. Picking up my bow from underneath a concealed tree trunk was as if I'd taken my first breath of air in years.

The soft, polished wood was icy to the touch, but felt all too familiar in my hands. The way the grooves in the oak, after nearly just under a decade of use, had moulded to my grip was comforting. Just raising the bow up, an arrow already drawn, caused a warmth to course through my body.

In the distance I spotted a rustling high up in a elm tree. A squirrel had seen me coming, and was scrambling to escape my arrows. Unfortunately, a promise is a promise. Five squirrels just aren't going to hunt themselves.

Drawing my bow up, I focused on the retreating animal, and let the arrow fly. The tell-telling squeak informed me I had hit my target. Smiling, knowing I just had four to go, I bound forward to retrieve my kill, careful to be light-footed so that I don't disturb any of my other potential prey in the forest.

"Daisy Johnson strikes again!"

The voice, omitting from behind the tree, did not startle me. Instead it caused a huge grin to break out onto my face. There, in front of me, stood Lincoln Campbell. My best friend in the whole entire world. Tall, with his wheat coloured hair, and his mossy green eyes, a contagious smile adorning his face, I could have recognised him anywhere. I leaped into his arms, wrapping them around his waist, burying my head into his chest. Instantly I was engulfed in the scent of smoke, and liquor - so much that it burned my eyes.

"What were you doing at the Hob without me?" I teased, pulling away, furrowing my eyebrows.

Rummaging in his trouser pocket, he brought out something wrapped in a beige piece of cloth. Curious, I stepped closer.

"I know it's not much" he sighed, handing it over to me. I smiled warmly at him, our fingers brushing each others slightly. "What I'm trying to say is Happy Birthday."

It's not really my birthday today, no. It's in three days. However, for the last six years, since both of our names went in to that damn bowl, I have chosen to celebrate my birthday the day before the reaping. Either one of our names could be called out the next day, leaving the other alone in the District. I guess I didn't want to risk not being with each other for my birthday.

I was careful with the package, so that nothing slipped out unnoticed. One year I had shook it so hard, the little puff pastry Lincoln had saved up four months worth of grain for, and a turkey, had fell out into the mud and crumbled instantaneously. Even just thinking about it brought a redness to my cheeks and a sinking feeling in my heart.

However, this year there was no pastry. Instead, a glistening little gold pin, in the shape of a ring, an eagle spreading it's wings across the middle.

"Oh Lincoln, this is . . . " I was at a loss for words. It was beautiful, and breath-taking, and brilliant all at the same time. Never have I held something so valuable in my hands before. Never something so precious. "I love it."

A blush creeping up on his face, - why was he blushing? - Lincoln turned to face the woods, gesturing for me to lead on. He teasingly bowed as I passed him, which I returned with a playful nudge of my elbow. He stumbled backwards into the shrubbery, causing a pair of partridges to abruptly fly off. This brought a roar of laughter from me, as I held my sides. After laughing heartily at him, I subsided, and gave up. I held out a hand for him, still chuckling despite myself. Lincoln took my hand, but then gave a sharp tug, pulling me down beside him. Immediately we were overcome with laughter.

Rolling to the side, I found I was face-to-face with Lincoln. His glinting emerald eyes mirrored my own, appalling reflection. Leaves were protruding out of my hair, as they were in his hair. However, Lincoln seemed to look far better, even with shrubs woven into his sandy-coloured hair.

I hadn't really noticed before - or not that I hadn't noticed, I just hadn't wanted to see - what every other girl at school saw. Not the pasty-faced, little boy with socks rolled up to his knees and a speck of coal dust on his chin, but the fully-grown _man_ , handsome and tall, coal dust nowhere in sight. Lincoln was handsome, and I'd heard the girls at school call him handsome - among other names - but I guess being around him for twelve years has made me oblivious. Until recently. Now, it's more prominent then ever. I still see my best friend when I look at him, just now he's my very good-looking, best friend.

"You're staring at me."

In my attempt to conceal my blush, I elbow him in the ribs again, and stand up, straighten out my jacket. My dark locks, which had been in a neat braid down my shoulder, was now messy, strands of hair falling loose. Sighing, I left it, knowing the amount of effort it would take to untie it, and do it back up again.

Walking up the hill with Lincoln faithfully by my side and my eagle pin on my coat, I was strangely at peace. I really believed that tomorrow, I could be left unscathed once again, and Lincoln could too. Katya, with her one slip of paper in the pool of thousands, I wasn't worried. Not up here anyway, surrounded by luscious green hills, rolling off into the distance.

Two hours later, we had managed to catch four more squirrels, making my deal with Dr. List square, a dozen fish, and a prized batch of wild cherries. We perched ourselves in our usual advantage point, on a field overlooking the valley below us. Somewhere, past the mountains, were Districts where children of all ages are fearing the worst about tomorrow. In the distance, I thought I saw a tiny glimmer of a window, the sunlight reflecting off it. The window of a Capitol train maybe?

"This time tomorrow, two more kids will be on their way to Games" Lincoln sighed, as if reading my mind. We usually were on the same wavelength, and more often than not, the other would say aloud what either one of us wouldn't.

"You can add that to the extensive list of things the Capitol have taken from us" I answer, nonchalantly. I'm counting the cherries, and carefully wrapping them in the cloth Lincoln had given me earlier. Cherries are a delicacy in District 12, and the townsfolk would pay good money for them.

"I don't have a good feeling about it, this year," he tells me, looking off into the distance with a dejected glint in his eye. "Something feels off."

"You say that every year, you know," I point out, glancing up at him. "Your name hasn't once been picked out. Not yours, neither of your brothers, not mine - we'll be okay."

"But what if we aren't? It's Katya's first year, isn't it? What if - "

I cut him off, the rest of that sentence unbearable.

"No. No" I say, as I shake my head, refusing to accept what is a very scary possibility. "It won't happen. Her name is in there once. It's more likely you and I get picked, which like I said, won't happen."

I was bent on ending the discussion, whereas Lincoln was determined to persevere and press.

"How many times is your name entered this year, Daisy?" His voice is stern, yet soft. It makes me want to just curl up in a ball, and slip away from everything.

"Lincoln - "

"How many times?"

I pause for a brief second before answering, unable to meet his eyes.

"Thirty-six."

My heart sinks as I hear Lincoln release a despondent sigh, almost as if he's given up.

We sit in silence for another few minutes, before I decide that it's time we head back under the wire, and try to strike a few trades in the town. The day before the reaping is - and this will sound incredibly insensitive - always a good day for business. Parents, all terrified for their children's fates, always try and cook a nice meal that night. Make a bit more of an occasion out of it. As though it's their last supper, which for two, it will be.

First, we knock on the Mayor's backdoor, knowing of his love for cherries. The door is opened by Mayor Raury Ward's son, seventeen year old Grant. He had dark brown hair, almost black, and hazel eyes. His jawline was a thing of beauty, and his cheekbones could have cut glass. He was taller than both of us, at around six foot three, towering over my own five foot six frame. He was dressed in a plain grey shirt, and tawny coloured trousers. He was rather muscular, something I couldn't help but notice. He also seemed to be rather reclusive, replying with simple one word answers.

"Is your father in?" I asked, stepping forward, shifting slightly on my feet. Grant was very much a lone wolf at school and around town, but that didn't take away the fact he was extremely good-looking.

"No."

"Oh, um, would you be willing to make a trade then?"

"For?"

Holding out the cherries, I hoped that Grant liked them just as much as his father did.

"We know they're the Mayor's favourite."

Looking between me, and the now slightly squished cherries, he nodded, and retreated back into his house. I glanced over at Lincoln, with knitted eyebrows, when Grant returned not a minute later.

He handed me a bunch of coins, and took the cherries. Silently, he remained where he was, waiting for me to count the money to make sure it was enough. And trust me - it was enough.

"I don't think I've ever held so much money in my hands before" I gasped, turning the coins over in my hands, astonished. Lincoln too, curiously peered over my shoulder to take a look. I half expected Grant to laugh at us, but he didn't. Instead, he gave a small smile. "Are you sure the cherries are worth this much? I mean, we usually only charge half this amount, sometimes less."

"My father will be very grateful for the cherries" he told us. My attention was immediately torn away from the money, and back onto Grant. Was that a whole sentence he strung together?

"Well, it's our pleasure" I replied, grinning warmly at him. I thanked him for the coins, as me and Lincoln began to make our way down the steps and back out onto the street. I had already started to divide our share between us, when I heard my name be called out behind us.

"Daisy!" Grant called. I swivelled my head round, and as did Lincoln. "Good luck tomorrow!"

I smiled once more, and wished him the same back, then added in a rather comical Capitol accent; " _And may the odds be ever in your favour!_ "

Daisy was certain that Grant had grinned back, even laughed a little, when he slipped back inside his house.

"He does realise I was stood next to you the whole time, right?" Lincoln inquired, disbelief evident in his tone.

I was filled with disbelief too, but for a different reason.

"I think that's the first time I've heard Grant Ward speak."

Now, that's not exactly a lie.


	3. Daisy Daydream

**A.N: So I really do hope you're enjoying this story, because I love writing it! If you want, leave a review, and I'll know I'm doing my job. Thanks!**

Sometimes I dream of a place far from District 12, far from Panem, where I can be whomever I wish to be. I can eat what I want, go where I want, live where I want. There would be no Capitol laws prohibiting me. No perimeter fence keeping me in. No Peacekeepers to beat me into shape. No starving orphans to pull me back.

Most nights I dream about running away from the orphanage, away from everything. Most nights I truly believe I could do it. Then, most nights I awake to a sobbing Katya, crying out for her mother, begging for her father.

It breaks my heart every single time, when I have to gently remind her that they both have died, and that I'm all she has. But then - that's not true is it? I'm not her sister, I'm not her mother. I can't replace what she once had. Something _I_ never have. What am I to know what a mother is like, when around me I'm surrounded by such awful examples. My own abandoned me, leaving me to an unknown fate in the back of a truck. Lincoln's cow of a mother is certainly no role model. Katya's . . . well Katya's is dead. Those who call themselves Mother Rhonda, Mother Lori and Mother Eliza all beat us, and treat us with disdain. The only two women in the district who have ever shown me kindness, are both dead. Mother Margaret, and Grant Ward's mom, Petra.

This isn't the smile at you in the street kind of kindness, it's the kind that really counts. I remember when I was a little girl, and it was my first day at school. Me and Matt were the only kids in our year who were from the orphanage, and a lot of the other children either pitied us, or avoided us. There was no in between. Blind, Matt relied heavily on me to make it through the school gates and up the stairs. However, I slipped up them, and dropped both my bag and his. Whilst most kids laughed, everybody kept their distance. Everybody, except Petra Ward. In her hand she was clutching a shy-looking little boy, who was around my age. In fact, he was in the year above. He was Grant. Petra helped me assist Matt into school, and graciously got Grant to help carry the bags. Living off normal rations was difficult. Living off of orphanage rations was worse. For five years of meagre portions - if I was lucky enough to get a portion - of grainy, bland bread and maybe some kind of sloppy, bitter porridge, washed down with a glass of lukewarm water. If we had been extra good, or it was some sort of special occasion, we would have fish, or squirrel as well, maybe even dog-meat. This kind of a diet made us all quite skinny, and a little weak. So weak, in fact, that at the age of six I was unable to carry two half-empty schoolbags up a flight of stairs by myself.

Petra didn't once apologise for my upbringing, or for my awful living conditions. She merely asked me my name, and Matt his name, and asked if we were excited about school. I talked, and talked her ear off until we had reached the classroom, then I talked some more. How strange it was that somebody had taken an interest in _me_ , not the poor, little orphan girl with skinny knees and chewed off fingernails. She told me she liked my dress, which one of the older girls in the house had given me when she out grew it. It was slightly too big for me, but a pretty little thing. Baby blue, adorned with tiny, needlework daisies around the hem. The girl who had handed the dress down to me was chosen three years later for the Games. She had only been thirteen when they brought her body back in a plain, wooden box.

Eager to continue the conversation, I showed Petra my hair, which Mother Margaret had braided for me that morning. She had said it was very nice, and that she often liked to wear that same style. So excited I had been, I turned around to show her the back of the intricate design. She must have seen the bruises trailing down the nape of my neck and my back, because she went very white. I hadn't realised until later, because I carried on talking and talking and talking, when I must have said something that had sent alarm bells ringing. She immediately knelt down and told me that if I ever needed help, she was there for me. Quite literally, there for me. She was to be our class teacher.

I had thanked her, and took Matt outside with me. I remember asking if Grant wanted to join us, but he merely shook his head, clinging to his mother's leg.

Petra Ward, or Mrs Ward as I came to knew her, died eight years later, when I was thirteen. Being the Mayor's wife, and a teacher at the school, a funeral was held for her, which the whole District had been invited to. Many of them did come, because all had liked Petra, and were as fond of her as I was. I remember sitting in the third row, an eight year old Katya sat on my lap, and watching as Mayor Raury gave a speech about his beloved wife. It seemed very formal, and stiff, for somebody who was supposed to have been in love with her. Her three children, Christian, though at twenty he did not resemble a child, Grant and Thomas, as old as Katya, all stood by their father's side, silent. Grant cried, noiselessly, whilst the youngest Ward sibling, Thomas, balled his little eyes out. Grant held him close, whereas Christian seemed oddly disgruntled, his appearance shabby and his features ruffled. Their father, though trying his best to hide, also came across quite exasperated.

Once, I caught Grant staring at me during the ceremony. I locked eyes with him, full of sympathies, and stared back, until he looked away, jaw clenched. It's odd. I've noticed him looking at me before, with the exact same reaction afterwards. I don't know why he avoids me, or why he doesn't talk. Yesterday was the first time I'd ever heard him speak directly to me, much less laugh at something I said.

I find myself thinking about him before I go to sleep, his face being the last thing I remember before I lose consciousness and sleep overcomes me.

The next thing I remember, I am abruptly awoken to the sound of Katya sobbing, screaming even, beside me. The sheets are balled up in her fists, and she can barely get an audible word out, when I wrap my arms around her and hold her close, muffling the cries. Rocking her back and forth gently, my hand stroking her back in circular soothing motions, I attempt to calm her, with a lullaby I used to sing to her when she first arrived.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

 _A bed or grass, a soft green pillow_

 _Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

 _And when again they open, the sun will rise._

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_

 _Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

 _Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true_

 _Here is the place where I love you._

I pause slightly, when I feel her ragged breathing slowly start to cease, her sobs succumbing to little whimpers instead.

 _Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

 _A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

 _Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

 _And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_

 _Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

Now Katya's grip on me loosens, and I know that she is steadily falling soundly asleep once more. The last few lines are but a whisper.

 _Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true_

 _Here is the place where I love you._

Whilst Katya manages to slip straight into slumber, I am wide awake, thinking about the next day. What woes and troubles it will bring, for in the morning they won't wash away, they'll all be frighteningly real.

Around three more hours I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, or at my surroundings. In this dormitory, there lay five other girls, their ages ranging from thirteen and fifteen, seven if you included me and Katya. The eldest after me, Mallory, is fifteen, and so her name will be in the bowl twenty-four times. I could very well be looking upon the face of the next District 12 female tribute.

More often than not, a child from the orphanage is picked. From the orphanage, or from the Seam. We, I suppose, are the most desperate. With the orphanage kids being forced to take out five tesserae with each reaping, and the children from the Seam carrying the responsibility of a starving family to feed on their shoulders, it's more likely that our names get read out, rather than the town kids, who haven't much to worry about. Though, it does happen. That one of them gets picked. Because they're not exempt from the reaping, they just have less odds against them. One year, when I was eight, the apothecary's son was chosen. Then, during my first year, the shoemaker's daughter.

The first year of the reaping is always the worst. Everybody is telling you that it's highly unlikely your name will be picked, that you will be called out. Except that it happens. We all watch the Games, we've all seen a twelve year old in there most years.

I don't like to think about the Games, or other districts much, but when I do, I start to realise things. See them in a different light. For example, in every district, there will be mothers, fathers, siblings, aunts, uncles, neighbours everywhere telling their twelve year old sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, friends, that they have nothing to fear. That 'the odds are entirely in your favour'. Except that for some twelve year old out there, will have to face the Games. That despite all their relatives and neighbours and friends telling them they shouldn't worry, they will still find themselves being hoarded onto the tribute train and whisked off to the Capitol, where they will face certain death.

And that in itself is a horrific thought. How many times have I told Katya not to worry? That the odds are entirely in her favour? That could be her tomorrow, on the train.

 _Shut up!_ I think, harshly, mentally scolding myself. _Of course she won't get picked!_

As I say these words in my mind, I feel Katya stir next to me. I plant a kiss on her forehead, and she turns to face me, smiling.

"Good morning little duck" I greet her, with a warm expression.

She bid me a good morning to, as I climbed out of bed and awoke the other girls. Usually I would have been met with some resistance, but today was different. The atmosphere was different. It was uneasy, a little apprehensive even. It was as if they had all read my mind and realised that anyone of us could be picked for the Games.

Shaking the thought out of my head, I proceeded to enter the other dorm, when I ensured that the girls in my own were getting ready, and awoke the rest of the girls. In all there were twelve of us, where we found ourselves greatly outnumbered by the nineteen boys. It was Matt's job to wake them up. Though he was blind, his senses and reflexes were astonishing, and the other boys knew not to mess with him.

After the girls all had quick soaks in the washtub, I jumped in last. The water was lukewarm, and the soap was a mere speck the size of my thumb. It was fine though - I was used to going last. Scrubbing my hands and feet, especially my nails, I made sure that all traces of the forest were indistinguishable. My dark hair was shining by the time I had finished washing it, giving it a glossy texture, and my skin was lathered with soap.

I left the bath, and wrapped a thin, coarse towel around my body, slightly damp from the last use, and walked into the dorm. There, it was empty. On my bed wasn't my plain, beige dress I had picked out the night before, but a beautiful indigo-coloured dress, made from cotton. On the collar, somebody had attached my eagle pin. Smiling to myself, I dropped the towel, and proceed to get changed.

After slipping on the dress, I was torn over what to do with my hair. It was very rare that girls chose to wear it down on reaping day, and it wasn't considered acceptable. Unfortunately my skills begin and end with a simple braid, something I wear everyday. Luckily, I felt a pair of tiny hands at the back of my head rapidly braid this way and that, loop this strand and that one. Katya was a magnificent stylist. Glancing in the stained mirror before I left the room, I was taken aback by my appearance. The dress complimented my body shape very well, and Katya had worked wonders with my hair.

"You look beautiful" she gasped, behind me.

"So do you, little duck, so do you."

I kiss her forehead, and together we descend the stairs.


	4. Little Girls Play With Dolls, Not Knives

**A.N: So I hope you like this new installment - I really loved writing it. Currently I'm working my way through the Hunger Games, and I felt inspired. Please review!**

Climbing down the stairs, hand in hand, I feel ready for the next couple of hours. In thirty minutes, we'll all have been arranged according to age, and two children will be paraded up to the main stage. Just forty minutes. But then, in an hour, it will all be over and done with - for this year.

Me and Katya are the last downstairs, and I find the rest of the orphanage waiting. Mother Lori is scowling, whilst Mother Rhonda has gone red in the face with anger. I assume Mother Eliza is assisting Matt somewhere.

"For Heaven's sake girls, do you want us to be the laughing stock of Panem when we turn up late to the reaping - if at all at this rate?" barked Mother Rhonda, dragging us into line.

"This is supposed to be a momentous day - what would President Malick say if he saw the state of you, Katya Belyakov?" Mother Lori frowns, looking down upon the little girl. Tugging at her frayed collar and the loss strands of her chestnut hair.

"He would say 'what a beautiful smile you have, and that's a lovely dress'" I interjected, holding Katya just that little bit tighter, shooting Mother Lori a bitter glance. She clapped me on the back of my skull with her palm, bluntly, forcing my head forward sharply.

"I do not tolerate insolence, Poots, and I don't tolerate you on the best of days, so I refuse to tolerate either of it now" she snapped, narrowing her eyes from under her jagged fringe.

Clenching my jaw, my ears ringing at the mention of my former name, I had a retort on the tip of my tongue, when I felt Katya squeeze my hand. Looking down at her, she seemed to silently be pleading with me to calm myself. Exhaling deeply, I squeezed her hand back, to reassure her.

I changed my name when I was around eight, after Mother Margaret died. After years of eating everybody else's scraps, wearing clothes nobody else wanted, and playing with toys too broken to be given to anybody else, I wanted something of my own. Something solely mine, that I had control over. I convinced Doctor List to make Daisy Johnson my official name, after much persuading. I chose it because daisies are my favourite flower. Johnson because that was the name scrawled onto the blanket I was found in. I assume it's my real surname. However, some of the Sentinel's still insist on using my previous name, probably just to spite me.

Matt appears, from the office with Mother Eliza and Doctor List, his wooden walking stick in his left hand, outstretched in front of him. He is dressed smartly, and looks very sombre. Another thing that grates me about this place, and about Panem in general, is that someone so severely disabled as Matt, is still expected to place his name in the Games. Never mind the fact that he can't see - the Capitol wants a show.

Matt was brought to the orphanage by the same Peacekeeper who tossed me aside, when he was ten. His father, a coal miner, was murdered when he was nine, a few months after he lost his sight. You see, Matt is one of the rare people in District 12 who possess the quality of selflessness. A great quality to have, but not if it costs you more than it's worth. Matt's mother brought him to the Hob one day, to sell either some lace, or some chickens, when this old man passed by. Matt watched as crates of assorted white spirits began to topple, threatening to fall onto this poor, elderly man. Matt jumped in front of the crates, pushing the old man aside. He took the brunt of the hit, receiving both burns and glass wounds in his retinas. He could never see again after that. Then, his father was killed walking home from the mines one night - no explanation why. When he was ten his mother had a breakdown, and could no longer look after him. She would sit in the chair by the door, waiting for her dead husband to come home. She never moved, never slept. One day, the Peacekeepers came and brought Matt here, where he would receive the same lack of care. Eventually his mother died a few months later. He was allowed to attend the funeral.

Me and Matt get on like a house on fire. We both share a similar sense of humour, and both take an active interest in actually looking after the other orphans. Neither of us have let our past setbacks or traumas affect us. Along with me and Lincoln, Matt is the only other person who can cheer Katya up when she's down. That, I respect greatly.

He falls in to line in front of me and Katya, taking the hand of a young orphan boy, who would also be entered into his first reaping today. It was customary for the elder orphans to travel this way, hand-in-hand with the little ones.

"Now remember what we talked about, Matt. You're not to be reaped, okay?" I tell him, with a grin. However good-humoured my tone is, I know Matt can hear the underlying message: _Please don't get picked_. "It wouldn't be fair on the other tributes to be competing against you."

Matt laughs. "You're right. Nothing says dangerous like a blind boy with a walking stick decorated with hearts - and before you protest, of course I know it was you carved them on.

I smirk, as Doctor List instructs us all forward, and out the door.

It takes a good ten minutes to make our way into town, and it's here I start to notice how scared Katya is. Her breathing becomes ragged, and her hands are growing clammy. I tug her aside whilst walking through a back alley, allowing the rest of the group to continue on - Doctor List and his band of Sentinel's leading the way.

Tears begin to stream down Katya's face, and she is now struggling to gasp for air. Running my hands up and down along her arms, I try to comfort her. I get her to copy my breathing pattern, and soon she has calmed down. I wipe away her tears, and hold her close to me, tightly.

"I don't want to go, I don't want to go Daisy!" she cries, shaking. I peel her off me, and hold her out in front of me, clasping onto her tiny little hands. _These hands aren't made for wielding weapons. These hands are made for healing, and playing piano, and painting. Not for murdering._

"Listen to me, okay Katya?" I order her, gently. "Your name is one of thousands in that bowl. You will not be picked, you hear me? I promise you that your name will not be called out. Do you know that horrible girl who takes your ribbons and kicks your shins and scribbles on your work? Her name is in there twice. She has more of a chance of being picked then you do." Not a nice thought, but better her than Katya who would never dream of stealing, maiming or damaging. _Another reason she can't go into the Games._

"I don't want her to be picked. I don't want anyone to be picked!" she wailed, her lip trembling, teardrops pooling under her ebony coloured eyes, and falling onto her delicate porcelain skin. This breaks my heart. She is so selfless. _A great quality to have, but not if it costs you more than it's worth._

"Somebody is going to be picked, Katya, but I swear on my life that it won't be you, okay?" I tell her, when I feel a hand roughly pull me up to my feet. Snapping my head round, I spot Mother Rhonda, fuming.

"What do you think you're doing, Poots?" she hisses, her nails either intentionally or unintentionally digging into my arm. I shake her free, and scowl at her.

"Katya's worried, and rightly so, this is barbaric - "

No other words escaped my lips, as Mother Rhonda brazenly reaches out and slaps me, leaving the whole of the right side of my face stinging.

"Don't you dare, girl!" she roars, her eyes narrowed. I can hear Doctor List's heavy footsteps approaching us, and instinctively I wrap an arm around my back to hold Katya out of harm's way.

"What's going on here?" List demands.

"This one is giving me grief again."

His lip curling, List turns to face me, and I brace myself.

"No surprise. Rhonda, bring me the girl" he replies, cooly. Mother Rhonda's pleasure is evident on her face, as she reaches out to push me forward, when List stop her. "No, not that one, the other one."

Before I can even think straight, I launch myself at the man, pinning him against the wall. My strength surprises him, and for a second, shock is written all over his face. My grip is tight on his collar, as I push my face close against his, glowering furiously. I can smell the liquor on his breath, and it only fuels me on. Whilst we're all fighting for scraps, he is free to drink as much as he wants.

"Don't you dare touch her, you hear me?" I spit, gritting my teeth.

He merely laughs spitefully, when I feel even more hands pull me back. Two Peacekeepers have heard the commotion, and are eager to assist the man with the money. They hold me tight, so tight I feel my shoulder blades grate against each other. List straightens himself out, and with his coarse hands he seizes my face, forcing me to look at him.

"You are a malicious little bitch, you know that?" he seethes, his dark eyes a nasty shade of evil. "You're far too much trouble than you're worth."

Then, he strikes. A punch to the lower abdomen causes the air to escape my lungs, leaving me horribly breathless, and sore. Another punch to ribs made me want to double over and die. _Any more, and I will_ I thought, bitterly. List brought his hand back to deliver the finishing blow, when a voice calls over to us.

Mayor Raury Ward and his three sons, accompanied by six more Peacekeepers, are visible a few metres away, at the opening of the entrance. He has furrowed eyebrows, looking upon the scene with caution. It's extremely apparent what's going on - Mother Rhonda clutching onto a wailing and struggling Katya, two Peacekeepers keeping me from collapsing onto the floor, and List with his sleeves rolled, fist pulled back.

"Everything alright down there?" the Mayor asks, though obviously it isn't.

List drops his hand, and nods, with a thin-lipped smile. "Of course Mayor," he answers, in a monotonous tone. "Nothing to concern yourself with."

"That poor girl doesn't look too well to me" he inquires, pressing further.

"Just disciplining one of my brats, Mayor Ward. This one has been particular disobedient of late."

"Well can't that wait, List? I do believe the pair of them are late for sign-up."

I feel the Peacekeepers loosen their grip on me, and I waver slightly, my legs threatening to buckle under my feet. I hold my head up high, however, to show List that he has not broken me - just a few of my ribs.

"Girl, are you okay?" the Mayor asks me, approaching us. His sons follow suit, and I find myself glancing over at Grant. He is looking rather smart, dressed in a light blue button down, and dark, cinnamon-coloured trousers. Surprisingly, I find that he is watching the scene with a clenched jaw, and blazing eyes. Does he not agree with List's form of public punishment? Obviously not. I look to his left, to see a little boy clutching on to his hand. Thomas Ward. If I'm right, and I hope that I'm not, this is his first year of the reaping too. What a striking scene - two entrants, on either end of the spectrum; the one who's entering for the first time, and the other one who's entering for the last time.

I just nod, taking ahold of Katya's hand. I look at her, and smile, telling her silently that everything is okay.

"Well come on girls, we can all go to the reaping together" the Mayor says, gesturing for us to follow him. We do.

My breathing is unsteady, but I can move. I bear the pain, knowing that later it well ten times as worse, when List will find a way to blame him getting caught on me. Luckily we're among a dozen other latecomers, and all eyes aren't on us. I direct Katya to the desk, and I tell her that the needle prick will only hurt for a second. I barely feel it, whereas Katya winces out loud. We state our name and age, and they point us to our stations. Katya is to stand closer to the front, on account of her young age. I take my place near the back, surrounded by fellow sixteen year olds

I scan for Lincoln among the huddle of boys, desperately. Accidentally, I lock eyes with Grant, who was glancing over in my direction. Hastily, I look away, and spot a blond haired boy. Lincoln.

 _What happened to you?_ he mouths to me.

 _Later,_ I mouth back. _How are the boys?_

His brothers, Jem and Buckley are entering again this year. Jem, who is fifteen, will have his name in the pool sixteen times, and Buckley, who is thirteen, will have his name in eight times. With this being Lincon's fifth year, like mine, his name will be in eighteen times. Nothing on my thirty, but enough to still be in the running. That very thought causes a knot to form in my already aching chest.

 _Worried,_ he replies, with a lopsided smile. _Aren't we all?_

I nod, agreeing completely. About to say something back, the anthem begins to play, directing all of our attention forward.

The Mayor stand at the front, in his newly pressed suit, and delivers the same speech about how Panem came to be. The story of how this glorious and united country (their words, not mine) rose up out of the ashes of a place once called North America. Listing the many disasters that had destroyed so much of the land, and talking about the war the Capitol saved us from, bringing about the creation of the thirteen districts. Then the same tale of what is referred to as the Dark Days is told, which details the uprising of said districts. Twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth obliterated. The Hunger Games were invented as a way to remind everyone every year of the Capitol's power.

It's boring really, when that's the only thing you've ever been taught all your life. I tune out through most of it.

Then follows the list of District 12's previous winners. It's a short list. In seventy-four long years, only two from this district have ever one before. Just one is left alive. Melinda May. A stoic, stony-faced Asian woman, she wasn't the friendliest of people. Something happened to her in the Games, which caused her to just snap. _When the road is tough, have another drink_ is said to be her motto.

She steps out on stage, and as she does every year, refuses to say a speech. She just stands there, in front of the microphone, unwavering, a hip flask glued to her hand. Mayor Ward awkwardly waits, until it's clear she won't say anything. Instead, he introduces our district representative from the Capitol, Phil Coulson. Balding, he has tried to conceal this with a ruby red trilby hat, which matched his breast-pocket handkerchief. He was dressed in a muted crimson suit, and looked a complete fool.

Beaming out at all of us, he leaned into the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" he calls out. Nobody reciprocates his futile enthusiasm. He then talks about how fortunate he is to have been gifted with such a promising district, and what an honour it is, when we all know he is lying through his bleached white teeth.

So far, this reaping is exactly like all the others. The same _riveting_ speech from the Mayor, same bored expression from our _glorious_ victor, and the same _honest vivacity_ from the Capitol member. It was all rather yawn-worthy, until the actual deciding of victors begins.

"As always, ladies first!" Phil Coulson exclaims, smiling far too widely.

His hand hovering over the bowl, he makes a point about keeping us all on our toes, when finally it delves into the sea of slips. He decides on one, and pulls it out, triumphantly. My stomach lurches, and I bite my lip, nervously. Making his way back over to the podium, he takes his time opening it, until he brings his lips up to microphone.

"Katya Belykov!"

It's not me. But it's her.

The poor, innocent little girl who cries when somebody else cries,. The girl who struggles to open the heavy, wooden doors at school. The girl who still plays with dolls. The Capitol can't expect her to suddenly replace them with weapons, surely not? But they've done it before. Twelve year olds enter all the time. No, she'll be in the Games, lost and alone and frightened.

I didn't realise I had stumbled to the ground, until I feel the hands of the girls around me hoist me back up to my feet. That's when my surroundings shoot back into focus. The eerie silence of the town square, the horrified, yet relieved faces of the parents. Looking forward I watch as people edge away from Katya, allowing her to be scene by the cameras. Slowly, she starts to walk out of the cluster of twelve year olds, and step towards the stage.

"Katya? Katya?" I call, pushing my way free. People start to look at me, as my voice grows louder and louder. I don't care though. I promised her she wouldn't be up there. I promised her I wouldn't let them take her. "Katya!"

My voice grows more desperate and desperate, as I watch Katya turn to face me. We're stood in the empty section between the boys and girls, encompassed by the whole of District 12 - yet somehow, I've never felt more alone. One slip? One slip among thousands, and she was chosen. It wasn't fair. I wouldn't let them have her. "Katya!"

Two Peacekeepers run forward to drag me back into line, but I resist, screaming out her name loud and clear.

"I volunteer!" I scream, realising any other effort was insufficient. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Nobody has volunteered in decades, and clearly this has thrown everybody. The Peacekeepers listen as Phil Coulson instructs them to release me, and allow me to take my place on stage.

"Bravo!" he calls out, as if I want to be congratulated. This wasn't for the glory. This was me keeping my promise.

I bound forward, and wrap my arms around Katya, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Nobody is going to hurt you, sweetie" I manage to whisper in her ear, until the Peacekeepers prize me off of her, and thrust me towards the stage. Behind me Katya rushes forward, and her clasps onto the fabric of my dress. Biting back tears, I try to get her off me, but I've gone weak. Lincoln is by my side quicker than the Peacekeepers, and he lifts Katya off of me, and into his arms. She thrashes around, beating her tiny hands on his back, bawling her soft, little eyes out. With a despondent expression, Lincoln wills me on stage.

"Up you go, Johnson" he mutters, his voice unsteady. "And don't let them see you cry."

Holding my head up high, and keeping a straight face, I descend the stairs, Katya's cries ringing in my ears. _Better me than her. Better me than her._

Phil Coulson awaits me on stage with open arms, and a genuine grin on his face. F _inally_ , he's thinking, _somebody with a little spirit to her._

"A huge well done to you, young lady!" he cheers, looking to the crowd for the same impressed reaction. However, they're all looking far to aghast to find any sort of enjoyment out of the whole thing. "What's your name?"

"Daisy. Daisy Johnson" I answer, my voice as steely as I could make it. I couldn't give the other tributes something to revel in. I wouldn't be credited as the weakling District 12 normally puts forth. It's bad enough I probably have a mark left by Rhonda's bony hand, I don't want to be broadcast all over Panem crying like a little baby.

"Now, was that girl a friend of yours?" Phil Coulson asks, smiling past me and into the camera. All eyes would be on us right now. "A cousin maybe?"

What was Katya to me? She was a million things, but what to call her? I can still see her now, in the corner of the town square, Lincoln's arms enveloped around her. She's crying, still, and that alone is enough to make me want to cry.

"She's the closest thing I have to a sister" I reply, honestly.

"Don't want her to steal the limelight, heh? Well, come on everybody, give a big round of applause for your newest tribute!"

Not surprisingly, not a single person claps. Instead, I'm met with thousands of sombre-looking citizens, blinking back up at me.

Phil Coulson waits, and when it's apparent that nobody will clap, he moves on to the boys. Taking the same amount of agonising time to choose, finally he picks one, and brandishes it in the air. Whilst he walks back to the podium, I just keep thinking in my head about how much I don't want it to be Lincoln, or any one of his brothers, or Matt. Who knows, a sense of humanity might wash over somebody and they could volunteer for them as I did, but I doubted it. Instead I hoped, and I wished, that one of their names would not be inside that slip.

It wasn't Lincon. It wasn't Jem, or Buckley. It wasn't Matt.

It was Grant Ward.


	5. For The Cameras

**A.N: So this chapter was written whilst i travelled to my new house. I hope you like it!**

Grant Ward.

The boy with little to say. Very much unlike me, who isn't afraid to voice an opinion, he prefers to stay quiet. When he has something to say, he'll say it. Being the son of the Mayor, he has developed an aptitude for manners and etiquette, and know exactly what to say to the right people. The few times I've heard Grant Ward speak, I've been astounded. Impressed is an understatement. Once, when I was eight, our school had a visit from some Capitol officials to talk with us about The Hunger Games. At the end of a very rehearsed, and monotonous speech, we were given the chance to ask questions. Most were stupid things like 'why is your a hair a funny colour?' or 'can I touch your beard?'. However Grant Ward surprised everyone when he put his hand up. What came out of his mouth shocked us even more. "Why aren't the Capitol children entered into the Games?" This question left everybody speechless. After this, I developed a massive amount of respect for him.

Grant Ward.

The boy who was devastatingly handsome. Not that I actively admired, or drooled over the guys in my district, I just happened to notice Grant Ward. He had dark, chestnut hair, short, with hazel eyes tinged amber. Prominently muscular, if I focused hard enough I could make out his defined biceps and abs through his shirt. Again, not that I tried to. Because of his father's station, he eats far better than most of us, and is a healthy size. Brooding and mysterious is the only way I could describe him. At eighteen years old, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and a jawline sharper than my hunting arrows, he was desired by many of the girls in my school. Not that I cared or anything.

Grant Ward.

The boy who could punch through a wall. It was common knowledge that Grant Ward struggled with anger issues, and had difficulty compressing his urges. Only twice have I seen him completely lose his cool. Once, when he was fourteen and his mother died. Some of the Seam kids took this as an opportunity to pick on him, sending him into a blazing fury. He knocked one of them unconscious, and the other broke his nose in five places. They were three years older than him. The other time was last year, in the hallway. For some reason or another, Grant got angry, and defensive, and broke one of the boy's arms. They were in my year, and are complete assholes anyway. They probably deserved it. Threatening at the best of times due to his looming height and muscles, when Grant got angry he could really do some damage. I guess that's why he wrestles at school. He's quite good too - he's won almost every match.

Grant Ward.

The boy who helped me when no one else could. At some point in their life, most people in District 12 suffer from severe malnutrition or starvation. It just so happens that when I was eleven, during the a drought in District 11 that caused the harvest to fail, cutting off our grain for the summer, the orphanage was one among the worst places affected. With thirty-something mouths to feed, they struggled to feed us all. I ran away, sick of the rumbling stomaches and the sobbing little ones. After running for what seemed like miles and miles, I collapsed, under a large oak tree, in the immense heat. There, I allowed the tears to fall, and stream down my face. Through the humid haze, I could just make out two figure in the doorway of the Mayor's house across the street. Christian Ward, the eldest of all his sons, and Grant Ward. Christian, a nasty piece of work, was pushing Grant around. He ripped what looked like a book from his clutch, and through out into the dusty road. As Grant went to retrieve it, Christian shut the door on him, leaving him out to swelter in the heat. I was watching intently, and after a while I noticed he was staring back. Clad in a pair of baggy dungarees, rolled up several times to ensure it was the right length, and loose-fitting white blouse that hung off my bony frame, I felt even warmer than usual. Grant then disappeared back inside, his mother letting him in. As the door opened, I could smell his dinner being prepared. Roast chicken, and sage. That scent of a hearty dinner has never left me, and neither has what happened next. A few minutes after returning back inside the house, Grant appeared in front of me. He invited me to come and eat dinner with him and his family. This shocked me. I declined, telling him that he would be unfair of me to feast like a queen, when back home thirty other kids would all go to bed with an empty belly. Expecting him to turn an walk away, once again he surprised me by leading me to the bakery, where he instructed I waited outside. I wondered if it was some cruel joke he was playing on me. Never once did I think that he would possibly want to but me three loaves of bread to take back to the orphanage. "I know it's not a lot, and you're right. It's not fair that some of us get to eat like royals, while others go to bed hungry."

Later that day, after gifting the children with fresh, warm loaves of bread, Grant and his mother arrived at the door ladened with a whole chicken, half a dozen potatoes, hand-picked carrots, a large fruitcake, and some dandelion cordial. They didn't stay to feast with us, nor did they expect or want any kind of payment or thanks. Ever since that day, I haven't once been able to look upon Grant Ward without being reminded of the massive debt I owed him, for not only lifting our spirits up, but for practically saving our lives.

I don't think that I fully appreciated the great kindness Petra Ward had shown me over the course of my life until she died, by which case it was too late to thank her.

I know that I mourned her death greatly, so I wonder what if must have been like for Grant, to grieve her death. I'm lucky in the fact I never knew, or know, who my mother or father are, so I don't have the opportunity to miss them. People like Grant, and Katya, and Lincoln however, all knew and loved their family members. It was harder for them.

Grant Ward.

The boy who was selected as District 12's male tribute.

Nobody steps forward for him as I had done. Christian is too old, and Thomas is too frightened. And I suppose that Grant wouldn't want his little brother in the Games, even if meant he himself didn't have to go. Behind me I see the Mayor's face fall, distress apparent on his face. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared, the same obtuse, professional expression painted on his face, for the cameras.

Calmly, Grant makes his way up towards the stage, his eyes staring straight ahead of him. He may put up a gritty bravado as I had done, but if he's anything like me he'd be scared out of his wits. He refuses to meet my gaze, and instead chooses to stand with arms crossed behind his back. Feeling my cheeks flush a little, I turned back to the audience. Phil Coulson calls for a round of applause, and in true District 12 fashion, all we receive is a multitude of piteous stares. I think my volunteering shocked them. Nobody has volunteered for our district in . . . well, a really long time. Certainly no one has in my lifetime. Phil asks for volunteers on Grant Ward's behalf, but of course nobody did. I slight jerk of Grant's head caught my attention, and I saw that he seemed to be shaking his head. Was he angry nobody wanted to help save his life?

Suddenly, instead of cheers and whoops, we received something far greater. Something more meaningful. In our district, to press your three forefingers on your left hand to your lips, and then raise that arm to the sky, was seen as a mark of admiration and thanks. Archaic even, rarely seen, but it moves me. It's used as a goodbye to someone you love.

Unsure of how to react, knowing full well we were all on camera, Phil instead got me and Grant to shake hands. Awkwardly, I outstretched my hand, and waited for him to take it. Seeming reluctant, he gritted his teeth and took it, warily. Almost immediately he let go, and looked away. Not once did we make eye contact.

"Ladies and gentleman, District 12's Male and Female Tributes!"

And just like that, we were whisked away into the Justice Building to await our fate. Here we were allowed a time slot of ten minutes to say our farewells. Just ten minutes to say all that needs to be said, because in a few months, I could be dead.

The last time I entered the Justice Building, I was eight, and it was to change my name. I'd been inside for about twenty minutes, and I'd never felt so out of place. Right now, the same kind of sensation washed over me. What was an orphan girl from the Seam doing in a place like this?

This time is usually dedicated to family, but seeing as I have none, Katya, Lincoln and his brothers came to say goodbye. Katya broke into a run when she opened the door, and launched herself into my arms. I engulfed her, letting her bury her face into the crook of my shoulder. Sobs consumed her, and she was barely capable of getting a single word out. I sat down on a plush, velvet chair in the corner of the room, positive it was the most expensive thing I had ever laid my eyes on. Katy perched herself on my lap, and I had to peel her off me, so I could look at her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her dark brown hair war sticking out of her plaits all over the place. Her lip was wobbling, and that alone was enough to tip me over the edge. Tears began to fall from my eyes, and held the little girl close to my chest, afraid to let her go. I spotted Lincoln in the corner, his hand over his mouth, eyes misting over, as he struggled to suppress his emotions.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you, Katya, I'm so sorry . . . " I managed to get out, barely an audible whisper. Pulling herself back, Katya bore into my eyes with her hazel own, and placed her small hands on my cheeks, delicately wiping my tears away. Such a mature gesture for somebody so young.

"Why are you sorry? You're not the one who created the Games! You're not the one who forced me to put my name in! You're the one who saved my life! You're the one going into the Games!" she told me, in a steadier voice than my own.

Astounded at her courage - she was always far braver than me - I swallowed my sob.

"I know but I promised . . . I promised you I'd keep you safe."

Katya pressed her lips against my forehead, and I closed my eyes, still crying. "You always have kept me safe."

"I promise I'll win, you know. I'll win not for the damn Capitol, or for President Malick, but for you. I'll come home, okay sweetie? For you."

"I believe you, Daisy, I really do. And . . . I love you."

With these words, I knew that I'd made the right decision in volunteering. I always knew we loved one another, but never had we said the words aloud. Never had their been a better, yet worse time to say so.

"Will you still love me, Katya? Even through everything you see on the screen?" I question, with a horrid knot in my stomach.

"I'll know, Daisy. I'll know that you don't have a choice. So yes, I'll still love you. I want you home. I just want you here with me, safe. Who else is going to tell me about the elephants, and the Egyptians?"

"Oh Katya, I will miss you."

"This isn't goodbye. We'll see each other again. I know it."

Caressing her cheek, a bittersweet smile spreads across my face. I stand up, allowing her to hug me one last time, until I walk over to Jem and Buckley, who are both crying. Like Katya, they both have somehow wormed their way into my heart, and buried themselves there. I look at them, and love them, like they were my own brothers.

Kneeling down, though Jem is nearly my height when I'm stood up. Buckley however, hasn't had his growth spurt yet. Taking both of their hands in my own, I smile through the tears at them. I run my thumb along their knuckles, in an attempt to comfort them.

"I hope that you two stay safe, okay? That you'll help your brother out with anything. He'll need a new partner, you see," I tell them. With my last words, I see Lincoln's face contort, the tears flowing freely now. There wasn't a dry eye in the room. "And I hope you'll be there for Katya, when she needs you. I'm not going to be here to help her, and at the orphanage . . . well, she'll need two strong boys like you looking out for her. Promise me you'll do that for me?"

They nod, earnestly. Then, simultaneously, they both wrap their arms around my neck, and hold me for a few seconds.

Finally, I'm left to say goodbye to Lincoln. Getting to my feet, I find myself taking in all of his features, memorising every line, every dimple, as if in a matter of minutes I could forget them all. Only twice have I seen him cry. Once when a teacher informed him of the explosion that killed his father, and another time when he fell from a tree in the woods and shattered his arms in four places. I guess that's what made looking at him now, tears falling from his mossy green eyes, even more unbearable.

I couldn't think of what to say to him. There was a million and one things I wanted to tell him, but nothing I could bring myself to say. I can't stand to imagine that this could be the last time I ever stand in front of him, talk to him, look at him, hug him, kiss him -

Kiss him? Why would I say that?

Because his lips are on mine before I could even object. His hands desperately grab at my waist, pulling me closer, then travel up to my face, and he seems to holding on for dear life. Unsure of what do, I simply stand there, hands limp by my sides. I close my eyes, because that's the natural thing to do, but I can't help feel as though I had been punched in the gut. This kiss was bringing up so many mixed emotions - emotions I had no idea were there. But then, it wasn't comfortable. It didn't feel natural. So many things with Lincoln were like second nature. This, wasn't.

Pulling away, both of us gasping for air, I find myself staring into his eyes, speechless. I wanted to ask him why that, why now, why me. But all that came out was; "Look after them."

Unlatching himself from me, he nodded. "Don't die out there, Johnson. For us."

"For you" I replied.

Then a Peacekeeper appeared in the doorway, and ushered them out. Katya was wailing again, her hands reaching out for my own. Lincoln scooped her up, and swiftly leaving the room, without another word. As the door closes, I collapse into the velvet chair, the sob erupting out of me. I didn't realise how much my ribs ached, or how much my cheek was throbbing, because of the pain in my heart. Now that the people I loved most in the world were prized from my clutch, it felt as though I had bee unplugged from a life support machine.

I must have been crying pretty loud, or so wrapped up in my own thoughts, because I hadn't noticed Christian Ward slip into my room. He pulled up a chair beside me, and offered me a tissue. Shaking my head, I wiped my eyes with my hands, and furrowed my eyebrows, glancing at him with disgust. He wreaked of alcohol, and his appearance was distinctly shabby. If he took care of himself, he could perhaps be handsome like his brother. His eyes travelled up and down my body, and I felt like slapping him.

"What do you want?" I spat, putting in a lot of effort to compose myself.

Leaning back in the chair, he made himself quite comfortable. Of course he would - they probably have furniture like this everywhere in the Mayor's townhouse.

"I'll make this quick, okay sweetie?" he finally said, grinning a conniving sort of smile. "I know that you have a _big_ day ahead of you."

"Don't patronise me" I warn him, clenching my jaw.

"Trust me, I wouldn't dream of it," he chuckles. "Listen, we all know you'll win this thing. You're certainly capable."

This shocks me. Do people really think I can win? Or is this some sort of twisted tactic on Grant's behalf? He has absolutely proved that he's not here to make friends.

"All I want to ask is that you don't mess him around? Hurt him? He's too proud to admit it himself, of course. But I know girls like you. A nice girl, helping out her fellow orphans, putting clothes on their back and food on the table, but the second you reach that arena, the demon will be released. You're far too much trouble than you're worth."

His words ring in my ear. _You're far too much trouble than you're worth._ Didn't Doctor List say something exactly like that to me seconds before he hit me? I must not be worth much then. And what's this about me messing _him_ around? Obviously he's referring to Grant, but what does he mean by it? Too many questions, not enough time to ask them all.

Christian then sees himself out, just as Phil Coulson arrives to escort me to the car that will drive us to the train station. Grant Ward is waiting for us by the door, his arms crossed. Again, we don't really acknowledge each other. After the conversation I just had with his brother, the silence between us is completely fine. Clearly Phil cans sense this, and with a slight huff, he speaks.

"You two better warm up when we reach the Capitol. Nobody will want to sponsor you if you're sulking the whole time."

Scoffing, I can barely believe my ears. We have both just been chosen to participate in a bloodthirsty sport that pits children against each other in a fight for the death, completely against our own will. Are we not allowed to show any kind of emotion that isn't enthusiasm? Apparently not. What a contorted, and pitiful world they must live in.

What a contorted and piteous world I must now battle to stay alive in.

"Smile kids, you're on camera!" Phil Coulson encourages us, as we pull up to the train station ten minutes later.

Suddenly, with a jolt of cold realisation, a though washes over me. From this minute on, I'll live my life through the camera. My every move will be broadcast across Panem, my every word scrutinised, my every choice questioned.


	6. Sob Stories

**A.N: Now, before anyone gets offended, please understand that May isn't some kind of cold-hearted bitch in this, though I suppose she kind of is in the story, she's just sick of being given tribute after tribute each year, only to watch them die. She's in her earlier fifties, and after about forty-five years of watching kids die, she's just given up. Okay? Hope you like this chapter :)**

 **P.S: In the first chapter, I accidentally called it 'District 9'. Just to clarify, it is District 12. Sorry.**

Wails. Wails. Wails.

My mind was filled with the sound of Katya's pleads and screams. Watching her not once, but twice, as she was pulled away from my reach broke my heart. It took every ounce of my courage to not jump off the train and race back to her. I shudder to think what's happening right now, to her, at the orphanage.

I'd smiled and waved at the train station, and though it was polite, and customary, I felt like I was betraying those I had left behind.

 _Those I had left behind._ Lincoln. I'd left him behind too. With me I took a thousand burning questions, itching to be answered. For instance, what did that kiss mean? Was it a parting kiss between friends, or was it a kiss from a boy who wanted more? Did I want more from Lincoln? Is that why the kiss bothers me so much? Am I conflicted between my misunderstanding, or my longing? Did I even enjoy the kiss? I remember being surprised, and having a jittery feeling rise up in my chest, but was that because of the kiss, or the whole day in general? How frustrating to be left in the dark like this.

I didn't realise the train had started moving until Phil Coulson walked in through the door, shaking me out of my stupor, all beams, followed by a less cheery looking Grant Ward. He avoided my gaze, and instead chose to sit in a chair furthest from me. Instantly I clenched my jaw, and wondered why this agitated me so much. It's not as though we were the best of friends in the first place, and who knows, in a few weeks I may find that one of us is faced with killing the other.

"Oh come on you two, we're all on this journey together!" Phil Coulson called out, perching himself across from me, gesturing to the seat beside my own. Refusing to even look at Grant Ward, I found myself staring at Phil Coulson's hand. It was rather sturdier looking than the other, and seemed to be anatomic almost. It was odd, too, because his right hand was bare, and rather polished looking, whereas this one, the left one, was clad in a crimson glove - matching his ridiculous red theme. Then, he withdrew it, as Grant reluctantly took the chair next to me.

I crossed my arms, and proceeded to stare out the window, pretending as if I was so very entranced by the view - though there was nothing to see but the blurry shrubbery whizzing past us. Grant, I saw out of the corner of my eye, had taken to fiddling with a plain silver ring I hadn't noticed he was wearing.

"Well . . . let's start by introducing ourselves, yes?" Phil Coulson asked, when nobody else said anything. Even without looking at him, I could sense his awkwardness.

"We already know each other" Grant muttered, before I could get a word in. He didn't even look up.

See, this is what I don't understand. He's right; we do know each other. Only yesterday morning I had brought him some cherries, and he had laughed at my jokes and I had smiled, and we wished each other good luck. Now, he's behaving as though I personally picked his name out of the bowl of thousands, on purpose. I was too angry to even confirm what he had said, and chose to remain silent, fuming.

"Oh, okay," Phil Coulson said, clapping his hands together. I noticed a particularly metallic-sounding clank as he did so. "When did you meet then?"

He was eager to get us talking, to see what kind of tributes he was stuck with this year. I suppose he was hoping for kids easier to work with than last years. I distinctly remember one of them, a boy who had been a year younger than me, had tried to run off the when his name was called. The girl killed herself on Day 3 in the Games.

Again, Grant cut me off before I could say anything.

"We go to school together. She's in the year below me," he explained, as simply put as though he were explaining what water was for.

This felt like some sort of smack to the face. Not that I'd say our relationship - for lack of a better word - was complicated, but I'd expected a better explanation for how we know each other. For instance, I would stay behind after school some days with him and his mother whilst she helped teach me how to read. Or, the whole incident with the feast. Or even the fact I've been supplying his family with produce from the woods for about four years now.

"My mother taught her class" he added, and I detected a slight trace of bitterness in his tone. Why though, I don't know.

"That's nice," Phil Coulson smiles, as if he felt he was getting somewhere with us. "Did she teach your friend too?"

"Lincoln?" I immediately ask, recalling the first name to pop into my head. Phil Coulson shook his head, bemused.

"No, that little girl you volunteered for," he corrects. "Katie, was it?"

Feeling my stomach drop, as though I was imagining jumping off a mountain, instantly I drop my head, and nervously pull at my nails. "You mean Katya." He nodded, clicking his fingers as though remembering. "No, she's only a little girl. She was eight when Petra . . . when Grant's mother passed away."

I finish the sentence quietly, hoping Grant wouldn't hear. He did, and I saw his whole body tense up as I spoke his mother's name, his knuckles whiten.

"Oh, my boy, I'm sorry," Phil Coulson apologies, benevolently. "Death be as harsh as the crack of a whip. You know, when my mother's cousin's neighbour's Avox was so brutally taken by lightning, I couldn't eat or sleep for hours. So tragic, so tragic."

Nodding solemnly, he must have mistaken my repugnance at his words for empathy.

"However, my boy, all misfortunes have their benefits. You can use such a dreadful experience for sympathy points with the Capitol."

How disgustingly insensitive! I may not be Grant Ward's biggest fan at the moment, but I respect his past, and I completely deplore Phil Coulson for crossing this line. Could there be anything more abhorrently tactless he could say now?

"How about you, Daisy? What kind of traumas have you had to endure? The more poignant, the better it will work in your favour! A murderous father with a alcohol addiction? A penniless mother with a penchant for using the cane?"

No, apparently this is something worse he could day.

I was faster than Grant in reaching Phil Coulson, being smaller and lighter, and having spent most of my days in the woods hunting. My reflexes had improved with every kill. I was gripping onto his shirt, hoisting him out of his chair, the other hand poised to strike.

"You cold-hearted, oblivious fool - "

Suddenly I felt somebody roughly pull me back from Phil Coulson, and cast me aside. The strong, suffocating scent of liquor wormed it's way into my airwaves, choking me. It couldn't be Grant, so it must have been . . .

Melinda May.

She had hobbled from her cart to retrieve some more ice for her whiskey, when she had spotted me about to give Phil Coulson exactly what he was asking for. Pushing her sleek, raven-coloured hair from out of her dropping eyes, she pushed me against the wall, a half-filled glass in her hand. She looked even more hostile in person.

"Oh, watch out Coulson, we've got a feisty one over here," she slurred, spitefully. Prodding me in the shoulder, she took another sip of her drink. "You want to fight, girly? Are you just raring to go?"

Clenching my jaw, I didn't say a word. I spotted Grant from over her shoulder, and was shocked to see concern written in his dark, chestnut eyes. May reached out and grabbed my face with her bony fingers, and turned my head sharply. She was inspecting the bruise on my face, which I had no doubt was glistening deep blue now.

"Now who gave you this, hmm? Was it daddy? Did daddy get drunk and hit you, huh?" she sneered, laughing nastily. I couldn't answer. My blood was boiling, and my breathing had grown ragged. However, I refused to give in to her taunting. She wanted me to hit back. She wanted me to lash out, just so she could put me on my ass and show me just who had the power here.

"May, please, just sit down and - " Coulson pleaded, sighing. Clearly this wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with her drunk, and I don't expect it to be the last time.

"No, look at her Coulson! Just look at this face!" she was still holding me, my cheek starting to throb even more. Tears were stinging the back of my eyes, and a cry was just waiting to be released, but I refrained myself from showing any signs of weakness. "Daddy must have some kind of hand on him to cause this much damage. What did you do, to make him angry? What did you do, huh? Steal some of his liquor? Call him an alcoholic and a deadbeat dad? Did you hit him first? Does he beat mommy, and you had to be the hero and step in?"

 _Don't lash out. Don't lash out. Please, don't lash out._ If I had any chance of winning this, and I'd already promised Katya, and Lincoln, and the boys that I would, I wanted to appear at least a little bit manageable.

"Oh come on, girly, you were all mouth a minute ago," May jeered, dropping my face. I gasped for air, clutching my stomach. This apparently, was the wrong move. "Oh dear, did daddy hit you in the stomach too? Did he knock the air out of you, hmm? I wonder what other kind of scars he's left on you."

With this she grabbed my arm, and looked closely. I don't know what she was expecting to see, but clearly it wasn't all the glistening, pearly white scars that decorated my arms. A few purple bruises were dotted here and there too, but most of the were fading. May's face dropped, and this let me know she had ceased with her taunting.

"Would you like to see my legs too? Or my back? I've got some whoppers there. I've got one here, just under my eye - see it? Or this one, under my lip. Impressive, aren't they?" I imitated, pointing out all the scars I had on my face. Most were only just visible, but deep enough. The tears started to slip from my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. "I don't have a daddy, you see. Or a mommy. I do have about twelve Sentinel's back in the orphanage however, who have no trouble hitting me. Most of them use canes, but some like to use their hands. Whips are a little old-fashioned, but occasionally they'll get them out and get a few good lashes in. Hot pokers, now they're a real favourite. If you hold them for long enough in your palms, the burns will last for weeks. There's this other one they use, for if you've been really bad, where they tie you to a tree stump in the yard, and get the other orphans to throw ten stones at you. If they refuse or deliberately miss, or if you cry, the count starts again. That's a dangerous game."

I knew I had no need to carry on, that I had made my impact. May hadn't been expecting me to come out with anything I had just said, and clearly neither was Coulson. I couldn't help but hold Grant's gaze for a few seconds, finding that he was having a hard time listening to me. Why was that?

"I got this bruise earlier this morning, when I was trying to comfort my friend from the orphanage, Katya. She's only twelve, you see, and it was her first reaping today. I was promising her nothing would happen to her, when Mother Rhonda appears out of nowhere, and pulls me away. She is shouting all these insults at me, when suddenly Doctor List shows up. He's the head of the orphanage, and a bastard. He can't stand me, and loves to dish out unnecessary punishments on me. He punched me in the ribs, and hit me in the face. Then . . . then he stopped. It was either me, or Katya, and I'd taken a hit for her so many times before, I didn't even hesitate before I stopped him from hurting her. So, no. 'Daddy' didn't hit me."

Wiping a trailing tear from my face, I snatch May's drink from her hand, and finish it, allowing the icy liquid to slip down my throat. It's nicer than i expected, and I find my tastebuds calling out for more of the amber liquid. My legs carry me over to the drinks cart, and though I can feel all eyes on me, I continue to pour myself another glass of whiskey, filling the glass perhaps a little bit more than I should, and took my previous seat. Looking over at the other inhabitants, I motioned for them to join me.

"Are we going to talk strategies now, or we going to continue sharing sob stories?"

Suddenly, a sincere grin breaks out across May's face, as she sits down beside me.

"I like this one, Coulson."


	7. Debts

**A.N: Thanks guys for all the support, I'm feeling so overwhelmed! Do you think we can get this story to twenty reviews? I'm going to need something to look forward to tomorrow - it's my first day starting at a new school.**

May had sobered up just enough to fill me and Grant about the Games, during dinner. We feasted on roast duck in the sweetest, richest sauce you could imagine. All kinds of foods accompanied the dish, including tiny little corn-on-the-cobs and sugar-snap peas. It was hard to focus on what May was saying, when such an assortment of treats was spread out in front of me. Coulson was sat a respectable distance away, listening intently, however more mindful of what he contributed. Apparently we're the first tributes to stand up to him. I guess everybody else had other things to worry about than a few mindless comments.

Grant was talking more, and he seemed slightly less reserved towards me. Once he even smiled when I passed him a glass of water. He'd passed on my new favourite drink, whiskey, but water he was consuming as if his life depended on it.

Currently, May was telling us about the ever-changing arena designs, and how this could impact our rate of survival.

"See, if it's all rubble, and dust, then most people will die of thirst or starvation before the Careers reach them. Or if it's more water than it is land, you find that most tributes have never even learned how to swim. Again, they'll probably drown before they get a spear to the chest."

I guess this was supposed to reassure us. I understand what she's trying to get at, though. Basically, the Games are about natural survival, not the bloodshed. I took a bite out of this small, doughy creation my fork happened to stumble upon, and it felt as though every kind of flavour sensation I could imagine had burst inside of my mouth.

"Oh my God, what is this?" I asked, interrupting Coulson mid-sentence. It's alright, however. It was some bullshit about sponsors again.

"Dumplings - now what was I saying about - " Coulson answered, almost dismissively.

"And this?" I inquired through a mouthful of glorious dumpling, holding up a thin, pastry concoction.

"That's a pancake with duck sauce - you've never had a pancake? Or duck sauce?" he cried, raising an eyebrow. I chuckled.

"I don't think anybody has told you Capitol folk yet, but we're starving. We don't get three meals a day - and unless I put my hand in my pocket, we sometimes don't even get one. Those of us in the Seam have never even eaten turkey. The most extravagant thing I've probably ever eaten is goat's cheese," I explained, heaping more food onto my plate. I could hear Coulson scoff, but I didn't care. I was right. These pancakes required no hunting, no illegal trading, no money, no work. I'm not going to waste them. Looking up at Grant, I saw that every kind of table manner his father had taught was being put into good use. Not a morsel fell from his fork onto his lap, not a crumb hung on his lip. "He won't get it, that's why he's eating slowly and nicely. Me, well . . . "

May just shook her head, and turned the attention back to the issue at hand.

"Anyway, when I won, the arena was made out to be some kind of abandoned, crumbling city. The region was urban, and water and food were extremely difficult to come by. Most of them were scrambling for the same ration packs, killing each other in the process. Me, I used my knowledge and skills to find food, to find shelter. The others, they looked around and saw cement and stone. To me, I saw an advantages. It was an abandoned city for fuck's sake! There had to be a water supply somewhere! And food, well, that was trickier. You just had to know where to look."

Pointing a knowing finger at us, May smirked, and took another swig of whiskey. I followed suit.

"Of course for you two, it will be different. It's always different. Got to keep the Capitol entertained," she sighed. "What ever it is, you just have to think faster than the other tributes."

I nodded. Being an experienced hunter myself, I knew how to find water using the landscape, and where to hunt my prey. Grant, not so much.

"But what if it is all just rubble? How are we going to find water?" he questioned, knitting his eyebrows together.

"The Gamemakers are after a show. They won't want us all dying of thirst or starvation in the first few days," I explain. "The Capitol will grow bored of watching our mouths grow dry and our faces thin out. They'll want blood, and we won't be able to fight if we're all too weak to move. Is that right?"

May, who seemed impressed by my understanding of how the Games work already, smiled.

"Exactly" she replied. "This girl - I think you have potential."

I couldn't help but grin at these words. Growing up in the orphanage, I hadn't heard many compliments in my time. It was nice to hear somebody say something kind to me, and not because they had to.

"Now go get some sleep you two, you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow!" Coulson instructed, shooing us off the cart, and into the adjacent one which led to our individual bedrooms. He shut the door on us, beaming through the glass. Looking closer, I swear he was sporting some rather pigmented blush on his thin cheeks.

Suddenly, I realised quite how close I was stood to Grant. The corridor that we had been thrown out onto was narrow, and forced him and I to be pressed rather snuggly against one another. My hand was gently placed on his chest, and I could feel his heart beating rather fast. The height difference was incredibly noticeable, with my eye level aligned with his collar bone. This close to him, I couldn't help but be overawed with his muscles, defined greatly by his soft blue button down that hugged his figure.

Neither of us moved for a short while, but I don't know why. I glanced up, and looked into his eyes. They were gentle, for somebody so dangerous-looking. Surprising myself, I found that I could have got lost in them, if he hadn't of moved. Awkwardly sliding past me, he apologised, then disappeared down the corridor and into a room down the end. I was frozen.

Shaking myself out of my stupor, I dragged myself towards my room. Swinging the door open, I was stunned. Almost as if I was expecting to still be at the orphanage, I searched the room for extra beds - but there weren't any. Completely all mine. I couldn't believe it. Walking around the room, I ran my fingers along the velvet fabric that adorned the chair, the sleek mahogany of the dresser. It was all so . . . lavish, and luxurious, I was so sure to sit down anywhere would be a crime. Wouldn't want to tarnish anything. However, when my eyes fell upon the four poster bed with it's silk sheets, I couldn't hold myself back. Launching onto the bed, I allowed my head to land softly on the plump pillows. I'm ever so certain that this is what it's like to sleep on a cloud. I couldn't wait to tell . . . to tell Katya.

Katya. Right now she was probably laying in a freezing, rotting bed, with thin, sandpaper-like sheets to keep her warm. Her belly was probably rumbling, and no doubt List has taken his previous frustration out on her. I'm not there to sing her that special lullaby, and I'm not there to wipe away her tears.

How selfish of me? I've been sat on this train, gorging myself on extravagant delicacies, and admiring the decor, when back home Katya is all alone. Out of spite I immediately get out of my bed and stood in the middle of the room. I didn't know what to do with myself. My eyelids were drooping, but I was too angry to sleep on _that_ bed. And even if I did choose to sleep, I couldn't do it in my dress. That would run the risk of crumpling it, and I couldn't ruin the only thing I had from back home. Well, my dress and my pin.

Sighing, and half-heartedly giving in, I rummaged through the drawers and found the simplest nightgown to wear, buried at the bottom. It was a pastel blue colour, with thin spaghetti straps, and a modest lace design. It was still rather grand, but the most austere.

I slipped it on, and realised that my head was pounding a little. Must be from the whiskey. Taking in deep breaths, I decided that I needed some air. My windows were locked, surprise, surprise. Maybe I would have better luck in the main cart?

Silently, I opened my door, and tiptoed my way out into the corridor. My feet made a slight padding noise, and I felt my heart stop when I heard a door slam behind me - but I realised that it was just the door separating the compartments, and it had slid open by accident. I continued on into the main cart, and sighed a breath of relief. I spotted an ice bucket, where most of the ice was still intact. Curiously, I eyed the whiskey, and then decided against it, swiftly. Instead I wrapped up a bundle of ice in a hand towel left on the side, and brought the makeshift icepack to my head. Immediately I felt more at ease. Well, that was until I turned round and spotted Grant Ward at the end of the cart, with only his boxer shorts on.

After tearing my eyes away from his defined six-pack, I saw that he was crying. Not a sound came from his lips, but the tears were flowing plentifully from his eyes.

Unsure of what to do with myself, because he hadn't seen me yet, I chose to slowly try and back away. However I must have stepped on a creaking floorboard, because immediately he straighten himself up, and turned to look upon the face of the intruder.

"Sorry, I just came for some ice," I muttered, holding out the icepack. "I'm just leaving, don't worry."

Turning my back, I hastily made my way to the door, until he spoke, softly.

"Do you think we'll get to see them again?" he asked me.

I swivelled round, and dropped my hand from my head, and took a few steps forward. I knew exactly who he was referring to, and I honestly didn't know what to say. Of course there was no 'we', because only one of us can win. However, I knew what he wanted to hear.

"I believe that we'll see _all_ of them again, whether we make it back or not. If we come back alive, we can go home and live a long, happy life with them all. If we don't survive in there, then we'll get to see those already gone. The others will join us soon enough. That's what's going to get me through. Either way, I get to see the ones I love" I tell him, sincerely and truthfully.

That is what I believe. It doesn't explicitly answer is question either. Because 'will we get to see them again?' wasn't what he was asking me. It was actually 'will we die in there?'. And I couldn't look him in the eyes and lie to him. I don't know if either of us will make it home. But we'll give it our best, damn try.

Grant nodded, and I smiled at him. In this moment, everything in the past seemed to blur all into one, and none of it mattered. There was no tension between us. No expectation of how to behave, and nobody owed anyone anything. This is what provoked me to continue the conversation, I suppose. That, and the opportunity to continue admiring his muscles.

"Before we left, Katya told me that she'll still love me, no matter what happened in the Games. She said that she'll understand that I won't have a choice. If I have to kill somebody in there, it's because my hands are tied. Not because I want to. And Katya, a twelve year old girl, told me that she'll understand," I sigh, as tears start to spill onto my cheeks. Just the mere mention of her is enough to make me want to bawl my eyes out. "Your mom would understand too. She'll still love you."

Appreciative, Grant smiled at me, sorrowfully sweet.

Suddenly painful aware of the thin material covering my body, I said my farewell, and began for the door again. But not before some parting words of advice.

"That stuff - " I began, gesturing to the whiskey floating in the crystal decanter, " - is liquid death. Unless you like the thought of a hundred drums and whistles going off in your head at once, don't touch it. Trust me."

The sound of Grant Ward's laughter was the last thing I remember before blacking out. That, and the feel of his solid, secure arms catching me.

When I next awoke, I was bundled up in silky, orange sheets, on a bed I don't recall climbing into. Subconsciously, my hand slid across the mattress, reaching out for Katya beside me. I hadn't heard her stir once last night, nor did either of us wake from a nightmare. However, the space beside me was cold. Stone cold.

Instantly my eyes flew open, and I shot up, calling out her name. Horrid thoughts began to race through my mind. "Katya?"

Almost like a bucket of ice to the face, I remembered. I was no longer in District 12. I was on my way to the Capitol, to compete in The Hunger Games. Katya was back home, alone. Tears clouded in my eyes, when I spotted a figure hunched in a chair in the corner. A blanket strewn over his knees, he looked as though he had just woken up. I suspect that was my fault.

"What the hell are you doing in my room?" I demand, jumping out of bed, wrapping the duvet around my torso to protect my modesty. That nightgown was not a wise decision in hindsight.

Standing up, he begins to fold his blanket into a neat square. "Actually, this is my room. You passed out in the main cart last night, and your room was locked, so I had to bring you in here."

He spoke so casually, as though it wasn't a big deal. I suppose it wasn't - really he did me a favour. However, I just couldn't shake an odd sensation that trickled down my spine, and that caused me to be irrational.

"So what, you just jumped at the chance to throw me in your bed, did you?" I roared, with knitted eyebrows. I knew I wasn't being fair. I knew he was trying to help me. But I couldn't control my anger. Waking up, in a stranger's bed, without a familiar face curled up by my side, it scared the life out of me.

Grant looked at me, with disbelief. "I did the decent thing, okay? I could have left you to freeze in that cart, unconscious and in a pool of your own vomit. What would May and Coulson have said if they found you like that? So rather than biting my head off, you should be thanking me!"

With his words, I felt a huge surge of humiliation. Not only had I passed out, but it was in my own sick? Grant would have had to clean up after me. A blush crept up on my cheeks. My list of debts I owed him were just piling up, one after the other.

"I'm sorry, Grant . . . I - " I tried to say, but he cut me off, shaking his head.

"I don't want to hear it, Daisy," he sighed. "I'm going to take a shower, you should be alright getting back into your room now."

And with that he disappeared into his bathroom, leaving me red-faced and guilt-racked, stood pathetically in the middle of the room, draped in the bedsheets.


	8. Big, Big Day

Our train arrived in the Capitol at around two-thirty that day, and above everything, I was more astounded by the overwhelming amount of support we were shown by the residents. They cheered, and applauded as we stepped out onto the platform, even screaming our names.

Frozen, I simply stood, and waved. Unsure of what else to do, I waved at them, and this sent them into some kind of frenzy. People began to throw flowers at my feet, and I reached down to pick up a rather synthetic looking rose, pristine white. I sniffed it, and the surprising scent of vanilla shot through my nose. I knew it was vanilla because on a Saturday morning in the bakery, as a special delicacy, they make these small vanilla swiss rolls, that smell heavenly. I have yet to try one.

Coulson called my name, when he looked back and saw how far behind I was. He gestured me to walk at quicker pace, spouting out some more dribble about his schedule.

" - and you have and appointment with the prep team at three, and then you're to meet with Antoinne - though he's new this year, I heard he's quite the connoisseur. Depends when you finish in the Remake Centre - try and ensure you're done by six, so we have enough time to get you ready - we will feast, and then talk plans for tonight, because of course it's the opening ceremony. That is perhaps the most crucial part; first impressions. Big, big day ahead of us, yes?"

Everything about Coulson was so comical, and over-exaggerated, it was hard for me to pay attention to what he was saying. Suppressing a laugh, I just nodded.

"Uh huh, big, big day."

A team of plainly dressed assistants helped us with our luggage, which of course for me meant nothing. Coulson had insisted on bringing seven suitcases, three I'm entirely sure were fit to burst with hats. He was persistent he was the kind of man who could pull off wearing a plethora of hats. "Agree to disagree?" I had told him.

Our rooms were even bigger in the Training Centre, where a tower had been built especially to house the tributes and their teams. My room was perhaps the size of my dining room, kitchen and living room, bearing in mind that the orphanage can house up to forty kids, and ten Sentinels. It was ridiculous why one person would need so much room. It's not as though I have anything to store away, nor is it likely that I will return here after the Games. There might not even be an 'after the Games' for me.

Unable to even imagine home right now, or my chances at a life after the Games, I instead turned my focus to inspecting my room. I discovered a bookshelf filled with hidden gems. The orphanage library wasn't open to the actual orphans, and even if it was, there would only be two to choose from. _Girl on Fire_ by Mary-Sue Obelin, and _Synesthesia_ by Regis Garratt. I've been told they're quite good reads. However, here, on the shelf in my room, stood hundreds of novels, just waiting to be picked up. The scent of fresh pages was exhilarating.

Finally, I found one that perked my interest, called _Not To Disappear_ by Nicolas Soak. It was about a little boy trapped inside the body of a king. Forced to make mature decisions, and put others needs before his own, he was severely unhappy. He just wanted to be treated like a child, allowed to play with the wooden toys and go running in the stream, but instead he fought battles and enforced laws. This story resonated so strongly with me, which is probably why I chose it.

The Gamemakers need to realise I'm a seventeen year old girl, not one of their soldiers. I shouldn't be expected to fight their battles and be made an example of to prove their points.

I had gotten so engrossed in the book, that I hadn't realised Coulson had been calling my name for two minutes. The prep team were ready for us.

I walked in silence with Grant, and it was neither awkward or uncomfortable. We reached the end of a long corridor, where there were two doors. My name was scrawled on one, his on the other. Without saying a word, we both disappeared inside our respective rooms.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was on the other side. Three women were stood on ceremony, hands clasped, with wide, unnerving beams on their faces. They were vibrant. Quite literally. The smallest one was tinged fuchsia pink, with chestnut hair tied up into babyish pigtails, dyed bright crimson on the end strands. The tallest was pea green, with muted purple locks, again dyed a loud pink colour. The woman in the middle had no hair, but however was entirely blue, two different shades in fact. An aqua, and a cobalt colour.

After my vision adjusted to the eyesore that was my prep team, I gave them a smile. "Somebody should have sent me the body dye memo," I joke. Never in a million years would I ever even consider bleaching my skin. "I feel underdressed!"

They laugh almost immediately, which eases the whole situation. I don't feel underdressed - far from it. If anything, I feel like the only sane person in the room.

Bustling forward, they are eager to introduce themselves. I learn that the blue one is called Nebula, the pink one Carina, and the green one is Gamora. I'd have told them who I was, but of course they knew who I was. They were brimming with compliments, or at least I assume they were compliments, as they got to work ripping hair off my body.

"Oh, I would kill for your chest! It's so flat!"

"What interesting eyes you have! Did your mother have such dull irises too?"

"How refreshing it is to meet a young girl with such natural looking eyebrows. Nobody seems to let theirs' grow wild any more."

After three hours of rigorous, and sometimes excruciating, beauty treatments, they declared me officially ready to meet my stylist.

"Don't look so nervous, Daisy. Antoinne's an artist," Gamora assured me, as I sat up on the small bed, clad in only a hospital gown. "And he's easy on the eyes." I grinned.

I had waited for barely a minute when Antoinne Triplett appeared, dressed all in simple black. It surprised me at how normal he looked, when all the other stylists on the screens appear surgically altered. He was young too, perhaps only a few years older than me. There was something comforting about his smile, and the soft twinkle of his eyes, that made me instantly trust him.

"Hello Daisy, I'm Antoinne, and I'm going to be your stylist," he spoke, gently. He outstretched his hand for me to take, which I did. "But you can call me Trip. Everybody else does."

He took a seat next to me, and clasped his hands together. His eyes roamed all over my face, taking in every detail. Oddly enough, I didn't feel awkward at all.

"May I ask who that girl you volunteered for was?" he inquired, in a truly genuine manner. This question took me aback, but I was more than willing to answer. Trip seemed as though he wanted to know me for me, not because I was his tribute to decorate.

"Katya. Her parents both died when she was little, and I've kind of become a sister to her, in a way. We both live in my districts orphanage, together."

Trip nodded, listening intently. "If it wasn't for your obvious heritage, I would have assumed she was your biological sister." He was referring to my Asian lineage, from whom I inherited most of my features. Usually when the fact that I'm biracial is brought up, I kind of close off, assuming anything said afterwards is a dig at me, or too personal to ask. However, I didn't mind when Trip asked.

"Most people say that," I tell him, with a ghost of a grin. "It's because we've all each other has. I mean, I have a friend - Lincoln - but Katya, she has no one."

Reaching out, Trip holds my hand,tracing his thumb along my knuckles in a comforting manner. "I'm not going to pretend that I've had life any harder than you, because we both know that's absurd. But know that I understand a small fraction of what you've had to go through. Both of my parents are dead too. I live with my grandmother. People in the Capitol assume that missing a nail appointment is just as gruelling as what people like you go through in the districts. They haven't a clue. I haven't a clue. I'm here, to make this as easy for you as possible. I'm also here, as a pair of ears. Don't think you can't talk to me about anything and everything, okay?"

Smiling, I nodded. "I appreciate that, really, I do."

Grinning back at me, Trip jumped off the table, and held a hand for me so I could to the same. He got me to twirl for him, and with a pair of analytical eyes, he watched me closely. Getting dizzy, I stopped, and waited for him to say something.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he finally said, his arms crossed, clutching his chin. There was nothing romantic about the way he said those words, it was purely from a professional point of view. That didn't mean it didn't feel nice to hear it. "I have the perfect dress for you - if you'll let me show you?"

Eagerly, I beamed at him. "Anything."

It was half seven when I finally returned to the Tribute Centre, where May, Coulson and Grant had already began eating. A wonderful spread of assorted sandwiches and rolls had been laid out, with every kind of filling. My stomach grumbled at the mere sight of food. I took my seat, fully aware of the three pairs of eyes burning holes into my skull.

"What time do you call this, young lady?" Coulson asks me, with flared nostrils. May was tapping her fingernails on the table, whilst Grant finished off a cranberry and turkey sandwich, looking at me with clear curiosity.

"Trip was just showing me some of his designs for tonight. The dresses he makes are exquisite, really," I explain, helping myself to a lettuce and chicken roll. "We picked one out for the ceremony. You'll love it."

They all seem taken aback by my sudden enthusiasm, and I relish in their shocked faces.

"Oh, well . . . that's great," Coulson finally says. "Can you divulge any details about said dress?"

Grinning, I leant forward, excitedly. "He's going to set me on fire."


	9. Balance

**A.N: Okay, so this one is a little short, but I'm hoping to keep the updates daily, so you won't mind, will you?**

The reactions I received at this statement were altogether amusing. I could have quickly explained it wouldn't be real fire, but it was far more entertaining to let them assume.

"What? Is he out of his mind? Why are you grinning? Why are you laughing? It's not funny, Daisy, he wants to set you on fire!" Grant rambled, as he shot out of his chair, eyebrows knitted, and his mouth wide in shock. His expression was a mix of disbelief, and confusion.

"Well, it seems everything I've heard about Antoinne, all these glorified reviews, have been falsified! Turns out, he's a stark, raving lunatic!" Coulson exclaims, throwing his napkin to the table in a huff, frowning. "I'll have to have a word with the committee about this, it seems once again, District 12 have drawn the short straw. It's completely bigoted, you know. You wouldn't have suggestions like that if you came from District 1, I'll tell you that now!"

"I like it," May spoke, with a widespread smile on her face, leaning back in her chair. Considering her glass held the most liquor in the room, she was the most switched on. "An explosive entrance from District 12 to get people talking - it's clever."

I grinned at May, slightly shocked at her words. As of late she hasn't been at all friendly towards me. Civil, yes. Helpful, I suppose so. Warm-hearted, certainly not. Coulson assured me that the word 'warm-hearted' isn't even in May's vocabulary, but I couldn't help but notice how she would lean towards Grant in a conversation, and always be the first to answer his question. Assertively, I told myself I wasn't jealous, that she was just doing her job. Somehow, though, a nagging voice in my head constantly keeps feeding me negative thoughts. For instance, she favours him. And though anyone in their right mind would; Grant is perfectly charming at the best of times, and is incredibly handsome, and insightful, whereas I'm more mouth than anything else, it concerns me to think where her favouritism will lead her. Where it will leave me. In the Games, I'll have no chance of surviving if Grant's the one receiving all the sponsor's gifts, and all the praise back in the Capitol.

I have to step my game up. I can't let Grant get the upper hand, even if it could cost him his life. Even if it would put my conscience at serious unrest. Even if it means I'll have to lose him. It is a Game after all.

"So for a better shot at getting noticed, you're going to let this mad man set Daisy up in flames?" Grant himself questioned, still stood, tall and impressive.

"Yes" was May's short answer, in a monotonous tone. Dapping the corner of her mouth with her napkin, she pushed her chair back, and hobbled over to the drink's cart, refusing any assistance from the silent servers.

Grant scoffed, perhaps in disgust, and then turned his attention back to me. Something about the way his eyes moved onto mine, softening ever-so slightly before a wall was pushed up again, made me wonder. Made something stir in my chest.

"It's not real fire," I sigh, picking out a smoked ham and cheese sandwich from the shrinking pile on the table. I noticed me and Grant had been shovelling food down our necks for the past day, as though we'd never had a meal before. On some part, that is true. "Trip explained how it works to me. It's artificial, of sorts, and won't be touching our skin - just the costumes."

"Our? Costumes?" Grant repeated, forcibly, however considerably more calmer. "What do you mean by our?"

"Oh, sorry, did I not mention? He wants to set both of us on fire. Or at least our costumes. Happy Hunger Games."

Grant shook his head, exhaled sharply, and took his seat, and didn't say another word for the rest of dinner.

Later, we were both whisked away to our respective prep teams, to be made ready for our first Capitol appearance, if you didn't count the train station. Grant only took around forty-five minutes, and fifteen of them were just his stylist, Joey, trying to coax him into the outfit. When I emerged, decked out in my lavish dress, I found Grant tugging at his raven black trousers, groaning. I caught my reflection in one of the gleaming carriages, and I was shocked with who I saw staring back at me. Never have I ever worn make-up before, and never did I know quite the impact it would have on my features once it was on. Somehow, my hazel eyes were sparkling through the smokey, black powder that surrounded it, intricate, little ink designs framed my orbs. My lips were bigger, plumper even, and a subtle peachy colour. My cheekbones, which were usually non-existent, were accentuated greatly, and I found that the way my chocolate locks had been braided into a sort of crown atop of my head, made me appear elegant, and poised - two words I would never have associated with me at all. My dress was jet black, and made out of this figure-hugging, lace material, that caused me to feel light-headed. It was tight, and felt as though it were a second skin. I looked, and felt, nothing like myself.

I walked over to the District 12 carriage, where the rest of them team was awaiting me. Once again I was late, and once again I could tell I had frustrated them, simply by their frantic pacing.

"Where is that goddamn . . . " May began, trailing off when I appeared by her side, alerting her with a sigh. Soon enough, the team had gone from a grumbling and discontented group of people, to one of complete silence, all dazed. I wasn't sure if this was a good reaction, or a bad one.

"What's wrong? Too much?" I ask, concerned. Immediately I bring my hand up to my face, only for Trip to gently brush it aside.

"Daisy, don't be embarrassed," he muttered, softly, with a reassuring smile.

"You are absolutely sensational, my dear!" Coulson coos, looking me up and down with comfortable satisfaction.

Gamora, Nebula and Carina were nothing but complimentary, and truly this time, no questionable double meanings. Politely I thanked them, as we were told to mount our carriage. May approached me as we climbed aboard, and in a hushed voice, gave me perhaps the first bit of real advice.

"Hold your heads high, and show them why District 12 is going to have a victor this year."

I nodded, though wondered why she had only told me, and not Grant. Maybe she had already spoken to him beforehand.

It was a tight, compact space, the carriage, and it forced mine and Grant's hand to brush against each others. I shivered, though not entirely sure why. I glanced up at Ward, and found that he looked incredibly handsome, and somehow more mysterious than usual. He caught my eye, and I hastily averted my gaze elsewhere. I scanned the other tributes, as they too clambered into their carriages. A lump rose up in my throat when I saw how young some of them were. I didn't realise that at seventeen, I was among the eldest, and Grant being eighteen, was perhaps the oldest one in the competition.

Then, something else surprised me; everybody was watching me and Grant, intently, with a mixed bag of emotions. Envy, hostility, loathing, malice, spite. I realised that we must have been given the best stylist in the Games, because everybody else looked ridiculous. For example, District 1, whose industry is luxury, were clad in matching fuchsia pink fur coats, and wore so much glitter I was temporarily blinded just looking at them. District 5's tributes, whose industry was power, wore some kind of silver garment, decorated with large, foam lightning bolts that made standing so close in a carriage almost impossible.

"They're all staring at us" I mutter to Ward, unsure of where to look.

He simply chuckles, and bends down to whisper in my ear. "They're all staring at _you_."

"Shut up, it's you as well" I retort, though I instantly felt a little hot under the collar.

"Trust me, it's all you," he answers, and I could hear the sincerity in his tone just as easily as I could see his lips form around the words. "You're breathtaking."

I couldn't hide the blush that crept up onto my cheeks, despite the amount of make-up I was wearing.

Thankfully, Trip appeared from behind, and called up a warning. In his hands he held a torch, which held the artificial light. I braced myself, expecting some kind of searing pain, or unbearable heat, but nothing happened. I could hear the crackling of fire, and even saw the lick of flames wrap around my arms, but felt nothing. Laughing, I turned to Ward, holding out my dress.

"Isn't this incredible!" I ask, and he just nods.

All of a sudden, the carriage leaps forward, as the procession begins. We're moving faster than I had anticipated, and clutched onto the railings for support. I could hear the roar of the crowd as each cart of tributes made their way down the strip. My heart was pounding, and all of a sudden, the enormity of everything strikes me, like a slap in the face. Our carriage, pulled by two very magnificent, raven-coloured horses, was thrown out into the open, and the audience went ballistic. Their enthusiasm, and their exhilaration hit me in waves, and I felt extremely dizzy. Swaying slightly, I feared I would topple over, when I feel a hand slip it's way into mine.

"They'll love it," Grant mutters, as at first I flinch. Looking into his eyes, and seeing that softness yet again, I allow him to hold me. _I need the balance_ , I tell myself, trying to compensate for why I gave in so easily. However, I couldn't explain why the feel of his hand in mine caused a slight gasp to escape my lips.

With my other hand I catch a rose, very similar to the one I was given earlier, and sniffed it. This time, it smelled of lavender, funnily enough. Why is the Capitol are so set on modifying the way their flowers smell? Why is it that Capitol are so excited by the sight of two tributes, raising their joined hands to the sky? Why is it the Capitol cheer as twenty-three children all march to their death?

At the end of the strip, which I found I never wanted to end, despite the deafening cheers from the crowd, I look up and spot President Malick awaiting us with an ageing smile. His hands were clasped together, as he stood behind a podium, adorned with Panem's emblem.

He shares with us his traditional greeting monologue, that somehow manages to sound almost exactly the same as every other Panem officiated speech. It's traditional that whilst President Malick is speaking, the camera cuts to each tribute for a brief few seconds, before moving onto the others. However, I notice with a jolt, that me and Grant are receiving much more screen time than the others. Grant's words echo back to me, causing a blush that is probably going to be broadcast all over Panem.

Then, the national anthem is played, and a respectable silence befalls the whole city. Not a cough, not a rustling, not a toddler's cry can be heard anywhere. In fact, the only sound that cuts through the music, is a lone mockingjay, that flies absentmindedly over our heads. I catch President Malick's eye, and there's something devilishly unsettling about the way he was smiling. He nods his head towards me, and I do nothing but stare back, trying desperately to figure him out.

The music finishes with a flourish, and almost immediately our chariots are whisked away, in the same order as the way we came out. I realise that I hadn't let go of Grant's hand the whole time, and his knuckles had gone white. But he didn't say anything, though. He hadn't complained once.

We finally retreat back inside the Tribute Centre, where our team awaits us with adulation. Coulson is the first to welcome us back.

"Oh you two that was splendid, it really was!" he cries, helping me off the carriage, as the fire extinguishes itself like the flick of a switch. First time in heels too, and I found myself incredibly unstable. "Both of you looked jaw-droppingly divine! Grant, you dark horse, oh how the ladies in Panem will go wild for your jawline! - and you, Daisy! That thing you did with the rose - ugh, my heart filled with compassion! Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, the pair of you!"

Concealing my laugh with a smile, I hugged Trip, who was struggling not to laugh too. "Girl, you are heart-stopping in that dress."

"Isn't she?" Grant interjects, though I suspect he didn't want me to hear. Instead, I thank Trip once again for the wonderful job he did of making me opening-ceremony-ready.

"Right, back to work now everybody! There's a lot to do before tomorrow!" Coulson calls, clapping his hands together, already rushing towards the lift. As if this wasn't work though. It's not like I want to be here.

Except, then I spot Grant out of the corner of my eye, and I wonder. _Do I want to be here?_


	10. Strengths and Weaknesses

**A.N: I am so overwhelmed by all of the support this is getting! Thanks to everyone who is reviewing, and favouriting. It really does mean a lot.**

"Daisy Johnson, the girl on fire!" they called as I entered the room, clean-faced and dressed in comfy, and casual clothes I could actually breathe in. I smile, and greet them all in turn. Trip hugs me, and I beam at him the biggest. Coulson kisses both cheeks, whilst May nods her head, signalling that now, not ever, will she ever let me hug her. My prep team were ecstatic, and welcomed me all at once. Then I finally met Joey Gutierrez, Grant's stylist, and his prep team. They were nice, and full of praise. Last but not least, I said hello to Grant. We didn't hug, or shake hands, merely acknowledged the others presence with a slight smile.

We sat down to eat our dinner, and I noticed that me and Grant were seated rather snugly beside each other. My hand brushed his, and in unison we apologised.

Coulson raised his glass, filled with a celebratory, sparkling concoction, as the rest of us followed suit. "To District 12," he spoke, in an assertive, and joyous tone. "And, if I do say so myself, the greatest entrance into the Games in seventy-four years!"

We all cheered, and clinked our glasses against the others, the brought the cup up to our lips. The liquid was sweet, and fruity, and you couldn't have guessed it was alcoholic, until you swallowed, and that familiar fiery sensation tingled your tastebuds as it slipped down your throat. I had to pace myself, not wanting another repeat of the first night on the train. I could feel Grant's gaze on me, as he was thinking the exact same thing.

Chatter was mainly about what the other tributes wore, and how our costumes were so much better than anyone had anticipated.

"We have Trip to thank for that," I interjected, with a grateful smile in his direction. He bowed his head in appreciation. "Without him, nobody would have given us a second look."

"Now don't be so dubious, Daisy," Coulson cooed, placing a hand on my own in a comforting matter. "You could have gone out there, stark naked, and they'd still have loved you!" I wasn't quite sure how to feel about this statement.

"I think you two have set some kind of record for the amount of sponsors already willing to invest in you," May pointed out, skewering a piece of beef stew with her fork, and idly chewing it in her mouth. I'm pretty sure she's still on her first drink, and this in itself is a miracle. I wonder what brought on this change of pace? "We just have to figure out where your strengths and weaknesses lie before tomorrow."

Ah, the dreaded _tomorrow._ There's not a worse feeling in the world than the jittery trepidation of waiting. I really wish May hadn't brought up the topic, when I was in such a good mood - or at least as good a mood you can be in, given the circumstances.

"What can you do Daisy?" she asked, in a slightly offhand tone. "We know you can fight, and you could certainly talk your victims to death!"

A roar of laughter erupted as the words rolled off of May's tongue, and I found myself gripping the handle of my fork just that little bit tighter. I noticed Grant's mouth twitch a little as she spoke, and I couldn't help but feel a little betrayed.

"She can hunt," Grant told everyone, before I had a chance to even consider the question. "And she's brilliant, too."

"I'm not that good," I correct, with a tiny scowl. "Rarely do I - "

"She always hits her prey, right in the eye, so she won't spoil the kill," he presses, making me out to be some excellent marksman. "My father is always the first in line for her rabbit. He says he buys it not only because it's good produce, but because he likes the idea of you putting your neck out on the line, to put food on the table."

For some reason, the idea of my name being mentioned in Grant's home, much less the Mayor's household, sent shivers down my spine. I try to picture the scene; Mayor Raury sat, tearing apart my rabbit with his knife and fork delicately, commenting on how tasty the meat is. I zoom in on Grant's reaction - pleasantly surprised, though I can't imagine what he'd be saying.

"Please, it's by chance that I ever hit it in the eye." I don't know why I was being modest, making my skills seem adequate, when in fact I know them to be distinguished. Besides Lincoln, I'm the only hunter in District 12, and as far as I know, the whole of Panem. Deep down, I guessed that, maybe, just maybe, I liked to hear Grant compliment me.

"It's not by chance, and you know it" he says, looking me square in the eye. "Don't underrate yourself. You're better than you think you are. The majority of District 12 owes you their life."

This rubs me the wrong way, the fact that he's noticed things like this. It's uncomfortable.

"Well, what about you?" I ask him, knitting my eyebrows together. I turn to the rest of the table, who were all engrossed in Grant and I's back-and-forth derision. "Grant can fight, and pretty damn well. I've seen him, at school. He wrestles, you see, and he's the best in - "

"What are you doing?" he cries, and I could see his fists clenched under the table.

"If anyone, out of me and you, is going to have a chance at surviving this, it will be the one who has at least a chance at fighting back!" I shoot back. I can hear my voice rising in anger.

Slamming his fist against the table, he jumped up, and looked upon me with the oddest expression on his face. It was a mix between bitterness, and empathy. I flinched as he did so, and dropped my fork on the floor.

"You don't get to say that. You . . . you don't get to," he mutters, with an unsteady voice. His grip on the back of his chair was causing his knuckles to grow white. "You know, my father told me something, when they came to say their goodbyes. He said 'that girl has a lot of courage to volunteer for somebody not even blood related. When are you going to start showing that kind of courage, son? When are you going to make me proud?'."

I could tell, because of the pain in his eyes, and the quiver to his voice, that he wasn't lying. And in this moment, I no longer envied the Mayor's son with the full belly, and the six bedroom house between the four of them. I no longer saw him as the shy, little boy who his behind his mother's knee. I no longer felt like I was the victim when I looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Grant" I mutter, half under my breath, half loud enough for him to hear.

He shrugs it off, and decides to walk away, back into his room. I know that it's my fault he left, and somehow I know that it's my fault he's hurting. The fierce and vehement look in May's eye only confirmed that.

The rest of the dinner was eaten in silence, which was perhaps the worst option. It only left me to think about everything, about everyone. Katya, Lincoln, the orphans. _Grant_. I mentally scolded myself, remembering why I'm here in the first place. I can't let myself get attached to him, because how am I going to feel if I have to watch him die in the arena?

As the silent servers, who I soon came to learn were called Avoxes, and had their tongues horrifically cut out of their mouths, took our plates away, May, almost tepidly, continued with the previous conversation.

"So you say you can hunt? What with?"

"Bow and arrows mostly, but my friend taught me to make snares," I answer, leaning back in my chair, as to give myself some breathing room. I don't think I could have fit another bread roll in if I tried. "But Grant really is a good fighter, I've watched a few matches at school. He's come first every year since he was fourteen."

Coulson nods in approval, his face lighting up. Running through his mind now must be potential praise, showering over him as they call District 12 as the victor. Which one of us however, that's not all too clear. May however, seems apprehensive.

"If you're as good as he says you are, you need to make sure you find yourself a bow and some arrows. If you don't, I can't see you surviving for that long" was all she said, as she disappeared from the table, and hovered round the drink's cabinet. Then, she slipped off down the corridor, though I have a sneaky suspicion she wasn't heading towards her own room.

Feeling my spirits sink with a heavy thud, I down the last few dregs of my drink, and asked for some more. As an Avox leans over my shoulder, I am overcome with guilt. Never have I had anyone wait on me before, and I don't think I could ever get used to it. I thank her, with a warm smile. She nods her head in appreciation. In her eyes, as dark as the lake we crossed on our way here, I see a glimmer of empathy, before she returns to her spot, by the beverages. This is when you know you couldn't get any lower; when even the Capitol slaves pity you.

"May doesn't mean to come across so hostile," whispers a voice from behind me. Snapping my neck round, I'm relieved when it's only Trip. He offers me hand up, and he leads me over to the sofas. We sit down, and he smiles, comfortingly. "I think it's in the job description: fifty-two year old alcoholic District 12 mentor - must not smile, under any circumstances."

I give a soft giggle, and lean back in the chair, allowing myself to succumb to the warmth of the room, and the drowsy effects of the champagne.

"You should get some sleep, Daisy," he softly murmurs. "Tomorrow is going to be a big day."

I jolt myself abruptly, and agree. For tomorrow will be pretty eventful. We begin our three-day pre-Hunger Games training. And finally meet the other tributes.


	11. There's No Place For Morality

**A.N: Okay so this is a quick one - it's 3:37 am here, and my eyelids are actually drooping. Hope you enjoy it!**

Trip had came in that morning, at seven-thirty, after Coulson failed to wake me up three times before. He brought with him an outfit for me to wear, insisting that all the other tributes would be wearing the same thing. It was an all black ensemble, consisting of tight trousers, a tank top, and a pair of chunky boots. I'd asked him to braid my hair down my back, and he asked if it was my trademark. I'd laughed, and realised it probably was. Then, he escorted me to breakfast, where the mood was considerably chilly.

Grant averted my gaze, though May was shooting me daggers from across the table. I couldn't comprehend why this woman hated me so much, and it worried me to say the least. She is the one who gets to control what kind of gifts I get sent in the Games after all.

Raising a glass of fresh orange juice to my lips, I listened in to the conversation, already in full swing. From what I could gather, it was about the day ahead, and what to do and what not to do when we meet the rest of the tributes.

"Don't show them you shoot, Daisy," May insisted, rather forcefully. "And don't show them you know how to fight, Grant."

"Why not?" I ask, confused. "Shouldn't we be showing them all what we can do, not hiding? We don't want them to think we're weak - "

"That's exactly what you want!" May interjects, rolling her eyes at me. "The more insignificant you are, the more likely you're going to be ignored in the arena. You won't be considered a target."

Thinking this over in my mind, I agreed with her. There's no possible way I could enter the Games, after allowing them all to know just how good I am with a bow and arrow, and expect to live longer then the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. They'd strike me dead before I can even reach it - that is, if there even is a bow and arrow for me to find.

"She's right," sighed Grant, unable to look me in the eyes as he spoke, instead choosing to stare rather forcibly at his plate of scrambled eggs, which he had barely touched. The waver in his voice hinted at how nervous he was. As I was. "If you show the Careers just how well you can shoot, you'll be at the top of their hit list once we're in the arena."

Clenching my jaw, I hated the thought of standing back and playing weak. "So what, I just hang back and let them assume I'm puny and pathetic?"

"Yes," answered May, with a sense of finality about her. I knew I grated on her, and that I should just be nodding obediently, and lapping up every word she says, like a good little tribute, but I can't. I just can't. "In fact, you encourage it."

My eyes locked with Trip's, and the obstinacy in his demeanour silently pleaded me to keep my mouth shut. Sighing, I made my objection clear, but said nothing more on the subject. Instead, I proceeded to chew on a piece of toast, absent-mindedly. I had a thousand and one questions running through my mind, and they were just itching to come out.

"Okay, so what about our actual training? I can't pretend to be incompetent for three days, and then expect to be able to aim straight in the actual Games" I explain, edging forward on my chair, dropping the toast to my plate.

May actually groaned, and look down at her watch. "What was that - about thirty seconds of peace and quiet?" she grumbled. It was infuriating how she was treating me. I had to bite my tongue to refrain from talking back to her. If she was anybody else . . .

"Listen, both of you," May began. "I'm going to be training both of you, one-on-one, or both at the same time - whichever you prefer. Are you capable of working together, or do I need to separate you?" Her stare was particularly derogatory, and she spoke in a slow voice, ensuring that I understood every word.

"Together is fine" I tell her, through gritted teeth. Grant looks at me from the corner of his eye, and I wonder if he didn't want to co-operate. In all fairness, we were going to be competing against each other soon.

"Good."

We continued to eat in silence, and it was excruciatingly slow. May seemed to be eating every bite in slow motion, when I'd finished my toast a good while before. I drummed my fingers against the table, in hope of breaking the silence, however it just seemed to get on everybody's nerves.

"Can you not sit still?" May asked, curiously. "Is it impossible for you to behave in a polite and courtly manner?"

"Excuse me?" I burst.

"It's just you're always moving, always fidgeting," she sighed, as though my living caused her physical pain. "I wondered if you have some kind of genetic behavioural disorder . . . but of course, you wouldn't know would you, with it being genetic and all - "

I'd been focusing so hard on keeping my speech in check, that I hadn't given a thought to my actions. The butter knife in my hand was released, and flew straight for May's head. Fortunately for her, it sailed past her ear, and landed in the wall behind her, chipping the indigo coloured wallpaper off. May didn't flinch once, but did seem pretty surprised, and turned behind her, to find the knife glinting in the morning sun.

"You missed" she finally said, after the table fell silent, silent enough to drop a pin and hear it land.

"I wasn't aiming for you" I retorted, honestly, with narrowed eyes. I may despise the woman with a passion, but I wouldn't want her dead. Yet.

"Then good shot," she smirked, taking me aback. I thought she would have lost it, consumed with rage. However, she seemed impressed. And this confused me. "Grant was right, you are a good shot."

Glancing to my side, I saw Grant, and took some satisfaction in his mouth hung open in shock, his chestnut eyes wide with disbelief. This was the kind of reaction I was hoping for. Not praise.

"You two better make your way down to the Training Room, if you've finished your breakfast" Coulson was quick to announce, before any more knives were thrown. I was more than happy to have an excuse to leave the table. Trip stood up to wish us luck, pulling me into a comforting hug, as my prep team called out words of encouragement. I thanked them all, and left, following Grant out the door. He seemed rather eager to walk out too, I noticed.

"Hey, Grant!" I called after him, picking up the pace. He didn't really acknowledge me beside him. "Are you . . . are you not okay with May training us together?"

He sighs, and I take this for an immediate no. "I mean, you and I . . . we can't get attached. One of us could be dead next week." His voice was far away, as though he was trying his hardest to sound disconnected from the conversation. He still sounded nervous. It was contradicting, to see a young man of his appearance and capability, experience such mortal emotions, like anxiety and concern. If it wasn't for his last few words, I'd have found it almost sweet.

"No I get it," I reply, nodding. Not wanting to say anything else, both of us continued to walk on without speaking another word. We reached the Training Room in no time, though my concept of time could have been warped due to my constant whirring of thoughts spinning around my head.

Together, coincidentally, we pushed the doors to the room, and were struck with what we saw. Twenty-two tributes, all of different ages and genders and sizes awaited us, surrounded by weapons of every kind. My line of sight was immediately directed towards the glinting bow and arrow in the corner, but May's words echoed in my head, and I refrained myself. Instead, a blank expression shadowed across my face, and I allowed my feet to carry me over to the others.

"Ah Twelve, you finally deigned us with your presence" sighed the woman in charge, stern-faced, and bored-looking. Grant glanced over at me instantaneously, waiting for me to lash out. I could see his eyes pleading with me to stay calm, though my fingers were itching to grab the hilt of the knives right beside me. His expression was enough to keep me in line. My mouth twitched, and I had to try especially hard to keep the laughter from escaping my lips.

"Anyway, what I was saying was you are free to use any weapon you wish, and can train with the instructors waiting for you at each post. Do not engage in combat with another tribute; you'll have plenty of time for that in the arena." With her words I heard a few nasty chuckles coming from the Careers at the front, their arms crossed. "However, don't neglect the other stations. Plant identification and shelter building may not seem like the most exciting of ventures, but when you've mistaken a nightlock berry for a blueberry, or you're sat out in the freezing rain, you're going to wish you'd picked up the tools when you had the chance."

I knew the Careers were bursting at the seams to get their hands on the axes, and spears, and swords, and wouldn't dare go near the kind of stations May encouraged me to go for. This, I suppose, was a blessing. At least this way I have something to occupy myself with.

The chief instructor then let us roam free, 'to get a feel for the stations'. I made a beeline for the trap-making, and found that I was not alone. It seems that the younger tributes had the same idea. Cautiously, they were wary not to disrupt me, or distract me, and this broke my heart. At least two of them were twelve, and the other three were under fourteen for sure. One even resembled Katya remarkably, that I had to remind myself where I was. I caught the stare of a seraphic, little dark-skinned boy, and before he could turn away shyly, I smiled. He gave me a small smile back, and then returned back to his little trap. The others were having difficulty, but this boy seemingly had done it before. Perhaps he was in a similar situation to me back home, and had to provide for his family.

One girl was watching intently as I looped a piece of string through this hole and that. She saw me acknowledge her, and tried to make herself look busy, but only ended up making a mess of things. Her little, round face fell. I beckoned her over, when she mustered up enough courage to look back over, and though tentatively, she finally perched herself next to me. She held her knees close to her face, but watched keenly, with wide, illuminated eyes.

"You're very good" she told me, in a small voice. I smiled, and held out the string for her to tie the final knot. As her thin fingers delicately formed a precise bow, I was reminded of somebody back home. _Lincoln_ , I realise, with a heavy heart. "You're good too, you just need practice" I tell her, softly.

The little girl looked up at me, and grinned widely. After that, the others all soon gathered round, and were nothing but obliging, and willing to learn. They picked it up faster than I had, and not long after, I had got them all laughing, and smiling. I could see the Careers observing me, sniggering amongst themselves, but I couldn't care less. I had no idea where Grant was.

As the end of the day loomed closer and closer, I found that the little boy from earlier had made incredible progress. His simple trap was perfect, but now he was able to make a rope trap that would ensnare large animals, and maybe even people, and suspend them from the trees. I made a point of congratulating him, sincerely.

"This is really impressive," I breath, my hands on my side, unable to tear my eyes away from the work of art. I think Lincoln could have met his match in twelve year old Ace Peterson from District 11. His traps rivalled his, no comparison. "Where did you learn to do this?"

Ace looked around, as though he worried he could be overheard. I understood completely. I would never discuss my poaching habits in public, in case the wrong ears were listening in. I bent down to his level, and tapped my nose, with a slight grin. He laughed, and leaned in. "My father taught me in the woods next to our huts. We would go out together and bring back squirrels and rabbits and grooslings for dinner."

"What's a groosling?" I ask him. "Is that like a goose?"

He finds this assumption very amusing. "No, it's like a turkey. Except they're uglier, and squawk more."

"Sounds like that District 1 tribute" I whisper, gesturing to the snooty-looking girl, hanging onto District 2's male tribute, snorting with laughter at everything he said. I rolled my eyes. Skits like this were played out every year. A girl would pretend to find the strongest or the most prestigious male tribute ever-so charming and magnificent, and foolishly he would fall for it. They would team up in the arena, and after everybody else is picked off, ultimately the girl is the one to turn on the boy. Self-centred cows.

"Who taught you to make traps?" Ace asked me, with a curious glint in his gorgeous eyes. "Your father?"

I shook my head, and gave him a bittersweet smile. "A really close friend of mine."

"Oh." With this, I realised that age played no part in wisdom, and that this boy seemed to possess it all. He knew that just by the tone in my voice it was someone I missed, and it was a sore subject. He understood that I had no father, and no mother, and that I didn't want to be asked about that either. This little boy was ethereal, and I respected him so much.

We were then dismissed, by the chief instructor, allowed back to our floors for dinner. I travelled back up with Grant, who stood closer to me in the lift than he had done on the way down. I didn't even mind, I was still thinking about the young tributes who had decided to trust me enough to allow me to assist them. I learnt all their names, and their districts, of course, but then I also learnt where their parents worked, how many siblings they had. They had all told me how they wish they had somebody to volunteer for them as I had for Katya. Their little voices, frightened and shaky, had melted my heart, and I did my best to keep their mind off of the Games.

"I saw you with the little ones," Grant spoke, gently. I turned to face him, and watched his expression as he spoke. It was soft, and conveyed admiration. "They really look up to you. You have some kind of gift, when it comes to children, don't you?"

"I just like being around them," I answer, truthfully. "They make me want to be a good person. To do things that would make them proud."

"What an odd place to be thinking about morality," Grant added, pointedly. "In The Hunger Games."

And that's when I realised, he was right. Morality had no place here. And neither did these children. There wasn't single chance that one of them would return home. The parents they told me about, their schools, their friends, their neighbours, their brothers and sisters - they won't ever get to see them again.


	12. Unlikely Alliances

Training the next day was unbearable.

I walked in through the doors, only to be encased in the group of eager little children, proudly showing me their successful traps. Plastering a smile on my face, I patted their heads and congratulated them, trying my hardest to sound enthusiastic. Clueless they all were, about what was to come. All but Ace, who I just knew could immediately see through by the false grin I wore. He put his hand in mine, and squeezed reassuringly.

Pulling myself together, refusing to let the tears slip out and concern the little ones, I directed them over to the fire-building station. Ace, like me, knew that it was incredibly unlikely that any of these tributes will win, that even he probably won't ever go home, but he handled it marvellously. I revelled in his bravery, and decided that I was to be more like him.

Time flew by, and before I knew it, we were told that we were free to go. I waited for Grant by the door, saying my farewells to the little ones as they all split off to their respective floors. A few hugged me, and one girl when gifted me with a small and delicate twig man she had woven from the branches. Her eyes were a dazzling baby blue, and freckles dusted her cheeks. Her smile was infectious, and I found myself still beaming even after she left, though through falling tears. Clutching the gift to my chest, I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. When I opened them, Grant was stood in front of me, an odd expression cast over his face. I couldn't place what it was.

Sniffing, I wiped my eyes, and thrust the door open, and picked up my pace towards the lift. Unfortunately, Grant had no trouble keeping up. He reached the button before me, and pressed **12** for us. The lift greeted us with a _ping_ and we both got in. I knew questions hung on the tip of his tongue, so I turned my head away from him, and out of the glass casing to the lobby growing smaller and smaller as we climbed higher and higher. Even from up here, I could spot the reporters and camera crew and even the Capitol citizens, who began to scream at the mere sight of us. Holding my little stickman away from their beady eyes, I immediately turned away, disgusted.

We arrived back up to our floor in no time, and we were greeted by the smell of steaming mugs of exotic teas. Coulson pounced, quick to explain they were to help us relax and detox. My prep team slithered up beside my, their luminous appearances far too much of an eyesore for me to even take in. Eager to impress me with their extensive knowledge of each tea, and it's particular use, I simply shrugged them off and made my way over to the now crowded drinks cabinet. Somewhere down in the kitchens they must have somebody on stand-by to restock our beverages whenever we run out, because now it always seems full.

"It's only six-thirty" Trip sighed, as he helped himself to a serving of ice cubes for his already icy water. "You can't make this a habit, Daisy."

Scoffing, I make a point of filling the glass dangerously high with whiskey. I knew I'd regret it later, but currently I couldn't give a damn. "Habits take on average sixty-six days to form. I highly doubt I'll be alive in sixty-six days."

I laugh, though I'm not sure why. Trip doesn't.

The arrival of our dinner snaps his attention, whereas I find myself gazing out of the window, captivated by the vast city below. How luxurious everything seemed. How expensive. I'm surprised we can't see the lights over in District 12.

I didn't realise my name was being called by those seated at the table, until Grant's fingertips graze my elbow, pulling me from my stupor. Long since pocketing my stickman, I find that it digs into my thigh as I sit down. However, I don't dare take it out in fear of the others seeing. I don't want to share it with them. I don't want them to know.

 _But Grant knows_ , I realise. _Why doesn't that bother you?_

Determined not to think to far into the matter, I pick up my knife and start to butter a slice of bread, tuning into the chatter. The conversation, once again, is centred mainly around strategies, and controlled by May. Tonight's topic; allies.

"Is there anyone at training who strikes your eye? Any potential allies?" she inquires, chomping through the most succulent ribs I'd ever tried. Then again, these were prime beef ribs. The ones I've tried were horse. We were told there is no difference really, but I disagree.

"There is the girl from two," Grant starts, when it's clear I have nothing to say. "She's called Kara, and she's pretty handy with her knives."

I wasn't aware I had dug my nails into the table until I feel a blunt jolt run up along my bones. When was Grant with this _Kara_ girl? And what's with that stupid cheeriness in his voice all of a sudden? We're supposed to be . . . a team. We're a team.

"Good, good," May nods her head, pleased. "It will be very beneficial to join forces with at least one of the Careers. How about you, Daisy? Anybody caught your eye?"

I look up to see all eyes on me, curious. They way May was looking at me - with doubt, was it? - infuriated me. So much so that I didn't care what came out of my mouth.

"Yes. I'd like the boy from District 5, the girl from 6, the boy from 8, the girl from 9, and the boy from 11."

I can see them in their heads trying to figure out which face belongs to which, and I watch their reactions as they do. They start to laugh, expecting a joke. Only Trip and Grant remain straight-faced, knowing me far too well to know when I wasn't kidding. When I don't join in, the others soon realise too. Confused, and judging, I can see them trying to figure out why.

"You can't be serious?" May asks, knitting her eyebrows. My expression does not change, and she leans back in her chair, breathing out a sigh of exhaustion. Burying her face in her hands, she soon emerges, and looks up at me. "I'm trying to work out your approach, your angle, and I keep coming up short. Please, enlighten me, Johnson."

"My approach, my angle, is to keep these kids alive," I tell her, with as much conviction as I possibly can. "Did you know that District 11's tribute is called Ace Peterson who is only twelve? He has these amazing brown eyes, and can make the most impeccable traps with them shut. And District 6's tribute has the prettiest smile, who is thirteen. She reminds me so much of Katya, that it's absolute agony to look at her. And District 9's tribute who afraid of the dark and refuses to go near the weapons, and is only twelve too. How is she supposed to stay alive in the Games? How are any of them going to stay alive in the Games? Nobody else is going to help them, and nobody else is going to let them live. Sponsors won't be lining up to send them gifts. I'm their only hope, their only chance."

May throws her hands into the air with indignation, and bolts out of her seat. Coulson stretches his hand out over to me, as though he could possibly make this situation any better.

"Listen sweetie, what about the promise you made to Katya? About returning home to her? Aren't you the only family she has?"

"What about these kid's families? What about promises they've made? Katya has Lincoln. He can look after her. I have to look after these children."

"The families who let their children enter the Games without any protest? Parents who just sat back and watched as their sons and daughters walked up to the stage? Siblings who hid, without any thought of volunteering? Those families?" May spits, nastily.

"Don't act all high and mighty now, May," I scoff, shaking my head at her. "How long have you sat back and done nothing to help the District 12 tributes now? Thirty-five years? That's seventy tributes you've let die. Seventy families you've disappointed. And here I am, first year in the Games, doing all I can to help five little kids. Just five."

The room falls into aghast silence, the inhabitants staring between me and May with lumps in their throat. Poisonously, my coach narrows her eyes at me, and grins maliciously. She raises a pointed finger at my hand, smugly.

"Careful now, wouldn't want you turning up to training tomorrow hungover" she sneers.

Frowning, I glance down at my hand, and I'm surprised to find the glass of whiskey empty. I don't recall ever drinking a drop of it, but the blurriness of my vision and the swirling of the room only confirms it. I drop the glass, and promptly disappear into my room, leaning against the wall for support. I reach my room, and immediately I fall to the floor, against the door, tears slipping from my eyes at an alarming rate. Everything all at once succumbs me, and it feels like a hammer to the chest.

Any attempt to come in and soothe me from the others, is automatically declined, as I've ensured that the door is locked. Somehow I make it to my bed and drift off on the top of the sheets, because before long it's morning, and Coulson is calling to me through the panelling.

Jumping in a cold shower, I scrub my face, washing away any trace of the night I had. Tear stains, the puffiness of my eyes, the bags, the blocked nose - all of it is gone by the time I reach the breakfast table. Unable to stomach the thought of consuming any thought, I allow myself a sip go orange juice, before slipping off soundlessly to the training room. I don't wait for Grant.

When I arrive, I spot only one other tribute waiting. Not even the chief instructor has showed up. How earlier did I get here? He's the one from District 2. He has dark hair, and somehow seems older than he was, which was probably eighteen. Strong enough, I knew that he had been training for an opportunity to compete in the Games his whole life. Grinning at me as I make my way over, I'm disgusted to watch as he looks me up and down, approvingly. I'm forced to stand next to him, or else present myself as intimidated by him. He takes this as an opportunity to talk to me, and maybe figure me out. _Good luck to him_ , I think.

"So, you're that girl who volunteered from District 12?" he asks, cocking his head. "I'm Ian Quinn, but everybody just calls me Quinn. I volunteered too, you know."

Not even meeting his gaze, I roll my eyes at him. "Though I suspect not for the same reasons."

He throws his head back in laughter. "I like you," he says, with a sense of finality about him. "You're above all of this, aren't you? You've got the Capitol sussed, haven't you?"

"Listen, if this is you trying to belittle me, trust me, it's not working."

"I'm simply admiring you," Quinn tells me, sincerely. "You've got more brains than anybody else in this competition, and you're certainly better looking. You could win this thing, you know."

"Lucky for you that I don't care if I win or not, eh?"

"Now, I don't think that's entirely true" he mutters into my ear, prickling the hairs on the back of my neck. I look up at him, and he's smirking.

"You don't know a single thing about me" I retort.

He just chuckles. "Don't look now, but we have company."

I turn my head, to see Grant stood in the doorway, with a wounded looking expression. Maybe he thinks I've decided to team up with the careers too. That must certainly be how it looks to him; Quinn whispering words in my ear, laughing at things I've said, me stood dangerously close to him.

The others soon start to spill in, and that includes the little ones. I smile warmly at each of them, as they do to me. I'm desperately trying to avert Grant's gaze, fear of what I'll find in his eyes. What a fool he must think me. What a fool of me to care what he thinks.

Finally, the instructors arrive, and remind us that today is our last day to train. Tomorrow, we are to showcase our talents in order to earn a mark from the Gamemakers. This score will be broadcast across Panem, and will be the baseline for betters to make their initial bids, and for sponsors to hook their claws in first. I take this as a chance to inquire as to what kind of skill the little ones will share. Most decide to stick with fire-starting, or trap-building, but I know Ace better than that. He won't tell me what he wants to do, but he taps his nose in a astute kind of way. I ruffle his hair, and laugh.

Midway through the day, I'm approached by Quinn once again. Dragging me away from the little ones, I assure them I'll be back soon. He seems rather eager to make an impression. Maybe his team had pressed him about alliances the night before too. Did he want me?

Apparently so.

"I know that you're hiding your talents, Johnson," he smirks, keeping his voice hushed. "The others think you're harmless, dopey even. They don't see what I see."

Raising an eyebrow, I cross my arms. "And what's that?"

Reaching out and running a thumb along my hand, he gives a sly kind of smile. "The hands of a trained hunter." Dropping his hand, he brushes his knuckles against my thigh, for a bit longer than could be considered an accident. "The legs of a skilled runner." Trailing his fingers softly along the bones on my face, I shudder when he comes across my bruise, which has only just began to fade. "The eyes of an experienced killer."

Stepping a little closer to him, I muster up a steely expression. "I'm no killer."

"Maybe not," he murmurs. "But that nasty bruise on your face hints otherwise. My guess is that you're a survivor. And I'm only interested in survivors." He glances behind me, at the group of little ones, all gathered around Ace's fire pit, watching with wonder.

"I want you on my side, Johnson. But don't bring the kids."

He winks at me, and then skulks off. I roll my eyes, and return to my preferred allies.

Once again, the time escapes me, and I find myself stood in the lift next to Grant. He's wound pretty tight up, and I don't feel comfortable enough to ask him what was wrong. The doors open, and I decide to retire to my room early, unable to bear the thought of sitting at the table with May scrutinising my every movement and word.

With a sigh, I rested my head against my pillow, and stare up at the ceiling. My eyes begin to droop, heavy and weighted. Before I slip into dreams of being back in the woods with Lincoln, or nestled up with Katya, I have one last waking thought.

 _Could Grant have possibly been jealous of me and Quinn earlier?_


	13. Just Desserts

**A.N: Hope you guys like this new** **instalment! Hopefully they should be entering the Games soon, so you shouldn't have that long to wait now!**

I awake with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Today will be my last full day, before I officially become a tribute in the 74th Hunger Games. Rolling onto my side, I glance at the clock beside me, and groan. It reads 10:42am. Who knows, this time tomorrow I could be dead.

Leaving my bed is perhaps one of the worst sensations ever. There, it is warm, and comforting, and all I have to do is lie there. However, physically making my bed is the torturous. Just knowing that if today wasn't as important as it is, I could just climb back in, and lose myself in the soft, cotton sheets. As if reading my mind, I hear somebody slip in the room behind me, checking that I had risen.

Expecting it to be Coulson, or even Trip, I turn round with a forced smile plastered on my face. Then I spot May, and all pretences slip like the drop of a hat. Scowling at me, I scowl back at her, and cross my arms.

"What?" I ask her, with a flat voice. "Come to find my hidden stash of booze. I'll give you a clue; it's in my knicker draw."

"Hilarious," she says, showing literally no signs of emotion except boredom. "I came to talk to about today. About how you're going to astound the Gamemakers."

"Astound? I do believe that's as enthusiastic as I've seen you all trip" I tease, walking over to my dresser, and pulling out fresh underwear. My training clothes were where I'd last left them; in a heap on the floor.

"Can you just cut the jokes for two seconds?" she sighs. "This is important."

"Why aren't you telling Grant this too?"

"I already have," she answers, simply. "Yesterday at the dinner you didn't eat." Just the mere mention of food, and my stomach releases a grumbling mewl, calling out for nourishment.

"The Gamemakers aren't going to expect much from you, seeing as though you're from the least favoured district in Panem. And if you've done what I've asked of you, which judging by what Grant's told me you have, then you two will have given the others nothing to be concerned about. You'll need to capture their attention, okay? That means hitting the bullseye every time."

Nodding, May then leaves me to get dressed and wash, and greet them all a few minutes later for brunch. See, brunch is a concept people in the Capitol have invented, where even if you wake too late for breakfast, but too early for lunch, there's a meal that's hugely popular to help satisfy you're hunger. Though I doubt people here even know the meaning of the word hunger.

My hair trailing down past my ear, and down my shoulder, in my signature braid, I feel pleasantly rejuvenated, considering the nights I've had. It apparently shows on my face too, as the others are much more eager to engage me in conversation. Grant, however, is the exception. It's as though I've offered personally to hang his own father when I ask him to pass me the scrambled eggs.

Piling a few slices of smoke salmon on to my soft, and still warm bagel, I jump full-heartedly into a discussion about interview tactics. Coulson, of course, was dominating the topic, but May, surprisingly, was offering bits of advice here and there. She was in this position too, once upon a time.

"You need an angle, something to make the audience leap out of their seats and demand you be crowned victor already," May presses, stroking her chin as she looks between me and Grant, clearly deciding how to work us.

"What was your angle?" I inquire.

"Humourous," she answers, in such a monotonous tone that I find her statement incredibly difficult to imagine, or even believe. "For Grant, I already know how you're to be presented. Charming, alluring, good-natured. You'll have the Capitol girls practically squirming in their seats."

Whilst Grant blushes, I try my best not to appear annoyed. Why would I be annoyed anyway? It's not as though I care what other girls think of him.

"But you Daisy, you're difficult," May frets, her eyebrows knitted in frustration. "We can't have you going out there as your usual sarcastic self, they'll think your sullen and hostile. And they won't believe you if you pull a giggling schoolgirl act."

"I could always not say anything. I can be brooding and mysterious - it's worked before" I offer, before she can insult me any further.

However, she just scoffs. "As if you can be quiet for a whole six minute interview." That backfired. "No, you'll just have to be humble. Talk about Katya, talk about being an orphan. Earn a few 'oohs' and 'awws' from the audience, and you'll be set."

Even though I despised the idea of using sympathy and pity to gain attention from the crowd, but I know that it will be better to just nod and agree now, and come up with a better idea later. So, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, and say nothing more.

The conversation is civil, and light-hearted for the remainder of the meal, which could be considered a first. It felt like I was sat among friends, right up until Coulson asks if I've had any better luck making allies. Wanting to shock them, I nod, and give them a huge grin.

"Quinn, the Career from District 2, told me yesterday he wants me on his side," I explain, carefully examining their reactions. Clearly, none of them were expecting me to even mention one of the careers, let alone consider an alliance with one - though in all fairness, there's no way in hell I'd ever team up with him.

"That's wonderful!" Coulson cheers, kissing my hand. The others seem so satisfied with my answer, that I don't have the heart to tell them I don't intend on taking him up on his offer. So, instead I just flash him a warm smile back. Glancing over at Grant, I see the spoon in his hand, bent in half, and floating around in his cereal bowl.

"How's Kara?" I pry, with a hint of snide sourness.

Exhaling deeply, Grant took another spoon from one of the severs, and began to tuck into his cereal once more. "I wouldn't know. She's joined the rest of the Career pack. Quinn's allies."

His comment is paired with quick an acrid expression, and I couldn't work out if it was because of Kara leaving, or the fact she left to be part of Quinn's group. Immediately I regret my harshness. "I'm sorry," I tell him, though I'm not sure what exactly I'm sorry for. For his apparent pain, I guess. Or maybe the whole, horrid mess we've found ourselves in.

His features softened slightly, and his dark eyes flitted up to meet mine. "Not your fault" he assures me, understanding the underlying meaning in my voice.

"It doesn't have to be my fault, for me to be sorry" I reply, sincerely, quoting something I once heard Katya say.

It took the arrival of a steaming, fresh pot of coffee for us to break eye contact. Why we had gazed at each other for so long - I don't know. But for some reason, I didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable, and this worried me. I didn't want to grow fond of the Mayor's son, because I'm afraid of how his death will impact me. Inevitable, and undeniable, I know his death will come, if I'm to save the little ones first, or even myself.

No sooner had I gulped down my last mug of coffee, when Coulson and May shoved us in the lift, which took us all the way down to the Training Room for the last time. We were among a throng of tributes, all with mixed emotions. The Careers, which included a very obnoxious-looking Quinn, who proceeded to wink at me as I entered the room, were not in the slightest worried about what was to come. The rest of us however, you could see the anxiety clouding in our eyes. Grant had taken to drumming his fingers against his knees, and didn't say a word. Despite the seating arrangement which meant we were all sat in order of our district number (fortunately me and Grant were to go last), the little ones all flocked around me, nervously chatting away to me about this-and-that.

". . . and then the goat mother had wrestled off of poor old farmer - "

". . . nobody's ever told me they liked my freckles before - "

". . . and I came third in the entire school, even beating nasty - "

I listened intently to what they all had to say, and knew exactly how to respond. You react at the right moment, and appropriately, depending on the type of story. You laugh, and you gasp, and you coo, and you smile. I didn't mind at all. In fact, I rather enjoyed listening to them. It reminded me of being back in the orphanage.

Soon, however, we were sharply reminded where we were, as tributes were called out to perform their chosen talent. One by one the children slipped away, shaking and trembling. I whispered to them words of comfort, and told them to lift their heads up high.

As the male from District 10 went in, it was just me, Grant, Ace and the female tribute, called Raina, I believe. Thin and pretty, she was sat on the edge of her seat, legs crossed, her caramel locks framing her face. She was perhaps my age, maybe even Grant's. Confident too, as if she knew something we didn't.

Ace leant into me, his head balanced in the crook of my neck. I rubbed his back, soothingly. Grant had refrained from tapping, and instead had taken to breathing calmly, and deeply.

"My daddy was a hero, you know," Ace tells me, in a modest voice. "He never admitted it, but he helped save people back home. He worked hard so that I would never have to put my name in more times than I should. He'd hate to see me here today."

I'm transported immediately back to District 12, back in my dorm, with Katya curled up in my lap, talking about her family with such impressive strength. She too thought her father was a hero, though he was just an ordinary coal-miner. To her though, he meant the world. And Ace's father clearly meant the world to him too.

"Did you ever know your father?" Ace asks, inquisitively.

"No, as a baby I was found on a truck heading towards the Capitol," I answer, reciting what I had been told from birth. "A kind man took me to the orphanage, and there I was raised. Nobody in my district knows a thing about my parents, which is odd because it's rather small."

Ace lifts his head to say something, something most certainly profound and insightful, just as he gets called in. He plants a kiss on my forehead, and waves as he slips into the room. I wave back, and find a sob catching in the back of my throat.

"What is it about you that makes children so drawn to you?" sighs the girl from District 11, not turning her head so I can't seen her expression. Though from the sound of her voice, I can tell she's most displeased. "Ace hasn't spoken a single word to me on the entire trip, or to anyone really, and four days in and he's already spilling his little heart to you. What a wonderful gift you have."

I don't know how to reply, so instead I just sit there, and stare blankly at the back of her head.

"Such a tragic tale though," she adds, with a hint of malice.

"Tragic?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"You must know he won't survive the Games, right? A little boy like him, he'll be picked off as easily as you pick a dandelion."

Grant had to hold me back, or else I'd have ripped those precious little curls from out of her skull. I can hear her laughing, as she gets called out, and rage consumes me. Grant's grip is still tight around my waist, and he's pressed considerably close to me. Shuffling slightly, I unclasp myself from him, but don't sit back down. Instead I pace back and forth, seething.

"I don't know you as well as I could," Grant begins, in a tone that's naturally calming. "But the small parts of you that you allow the rest of us to see, tell me that you're determined and compassionate enough to look after that boy. Don't listen to some pretentious, jealous tribute, okay? She doesn't realise how stubborn, and fierce you can be."

I know that it shouldn't, but somehow this makes me feel so much better. I take a deep breath, and perch back on our bench, clenching and unclenching my fists. Grant sits back down next to me, and without realising, I let him slip his hand onto my knee. It stays there, until his name is called. I hear his breath catch in his throat, and slowly but surely he stands. I reach out and grab his hand as he begins to walk, which causes him to snap his head round and look at me funny. Kind of as if I were a stranger, but someone close too.

"Good luck" I murmur, and he gives me an uncharacteristically wide grin.

"You too, though I don't suppose you'll need it as much as me" he replies, and then continues on. I watch his retreating figure, then slump down in my seat. Any moment now they'll call my name, and I'll be scrutinised under the analytical eyes of the Gamemakers. No room for mistakes.

No sooner had Grant left, it was my turn. "Daisy Johnson. District 12."

My fingers ran over my eagle pin on my collar, and I closed my eyes for a brief second before swinging open the doors. Remembering why I was here, and who I was here for, I stepped in, ready for anything.

Immediately I spotted a bow and some arrows on the table, itching to be used. A stone's throw away from that were a couple of targets, that I was confident I could hit blindfolded. Eyeing a cross on the floor that instinct told me I was to stand on, I approached it, and waited for the Gamemakers to ask me a question. However, they all were clustered around a table above me, that held some kind of banquet for them. Coughing, hoping to gain their attention somehow, I realised I needed to speak up.

"Daisy Johnson, District 12" I called up, in as bold a voice as I could muster. This plucked the attention of one of the men, who seemed to be in his forties maybe, with dark hair and a thin face. His eyes narrowed on me, and I shuffled under the intensity of the hazel orbs. Few others turned to look at me, though most seemed to be more infatuated with the hog roast that had just been brought out. My stomach, which clearly hadn't been satisfied enough at brunch, gave a little grumble, which I tried to conceal with another cough. The Gamemakers took this as a bid for their attention, so the Head Gamemaker, marked out by his different coloured jacket, waves his hand for me to continue.

This is when I know. They've sat though twenty-three other demonstrations. All their enthusiasm, and excitement would have slowly started to decline after the Career tributes performed, and so the amount of drinks they consumed increased. They are far more lethargic, and inebriated now than they were at the beginning, and this is when I realise why District 12 _never_ has a high-scoring tribute. By this time, they're usually well beyond caring, really.

Infuriated, this fuelled me on. Picking up the bow, I admired it's craftsmanship, and model, though the balance was slightly off, and it was a little more weighty than I'm used too. The arrows were of a high quality too, and a little longer than my own. As easily as drawing breath I picked it up, and drew the string back. Drowning out the rest of the world, I focused solely on my heartbeat, and the target, more specifically, the bullseye. In a few short seconds, I had fired, and hit the centre. Proudly, I looked over towards the Gamemakers, and saw only the dark haired one watching. He clapped, though the others were so engrossed in their pork, that they hadn't noticed I'd even chosen the bow and arrow.

Hoping to actually gain some recognition, I drew another arrow, and aimed for one of the dummies, meant for the sword practice. Imagining the face of Doctor List, I relished in striking the heart. And then the head. Pleased, I turned to spy upon the Gamemakers, hopefully, but was once again, let down. Out of anger, I pulled back my final arrow, and let it soar towards them. It flew straight through their little huddle, and speared the apple in the pig's mouth, pinning it to the wall. Glasses were shattered, plates were dropped, gasps omitted. All of them were shocked, and they all snapped their heads to gaze upon the rebellious tribute from District 12 who dared to defy them.

Yet I did not care. Bowing low, sweeping the ground in mock grandiose, my eyes shooting them daggers. "Thank you for your consideration." And then I left, without waiting for dismissal.

Returning back to my floor, I saw them all waiting with nervous expectance. Grant had already changed, and he appeared both downcast, and sanguine.

"How did it go?" Trip asked me, greeting me with open arms. I smiled, and returned the gesture, hugging him tightly back.

"Grant's already told us their focus lacked," May sighed, sipping from her whiskey glass. Glancing over to the clock, I saw that it was three in the afternoon. "As long as you gave it your best shot."

"Best shot!" Coulson chuckled, slapping his knee. Nebula, Gamora and Carina followed suit, giggling. "Get it?"

I nodded, cringing slightly. The amount of times I've heard that joke only makes hearing it the next time far more excruciating. "Well, you could say that" I reply, collapsing into the sofa.

Leaning forward, as though suspecting what was on the tip of my tongue, May's mouth slipped open. "What did you do?"

"It's not what I did, it's what _they_ did," I retort, making it very clear my actions weren't unprovoked. "They were rude, and disrespectful. They had no idea that I'd even entered the room, let alone took four shots with the bow and arrow. Don't worry, nobody was hurt. Unfortunately."

This time I truly believed May had given up on me. Coulson looked appalled, and went to say something, but instead shut his mouth and hurried off, no doubt going to investigate further.

I caught Grant's eye, and the glint I spotted told me that he agreed with me.

An hour later, Coulson returned, flustered, and red-faced. He had been talking to himself the whole lift ride up, and when he saw me, he waved his finger dangerously close to me.

"I have just had the most embarrassing conversation with Sunil Bakshi, Head Gamemaker himself, and he told me all about your little stunt with the arrow, young lady!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"What did she do?" May asks, appearing by his side quicker than you can say _disapproving coach_.

"Do you want to tell them?" Coulson replies, in the most disapproving tone.

"I shot an arrow _at_ the Gamemakers" I answer, simply, stoically.

My prep team in the corner gasped, and Coulson had even resorted to fanning himself. Rolling my eyes, I sighed.

"You _what_?" May spat, sharply.

"I shot an arrow at them - well not exactly at _them_ in particular, more at the pig on their table. I hit the apple in it's mouth, just to scare them," I divulge. "And I'm not sorry about it. I wish I'd have hit one of them. They are greedy, and derogatory, and were more interested in their stupid feast then the kids they're sending to their deaths tomorrow."

The silence in the air unnerved me, and I wasn't sure who was the most disappointed. May raised a hand, and out of instinct, I flinched, closing my eyes. I opened them again a few seconds later, to see her running a hand through her hair, watching me closely. The others were too. Now, as well as despondency, I received gazes of pity too. Hating it, I frowned at them.

"Did you think I was going to hit you?" May asked, carefully.

Shrugging, unable to give a steady answer, I returned back to my seat on the sofa. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you Coulson. I didn't realise how this would effect us all."

Seemingly lightening his spirits, he patted my shoulder, softly. "It's okay, you can't help what you do in the heat of a moment."

"Just don't expect life to be a picnic when you get in there, Daisy," May advises. "They won't take their anger out on you just yet. They'll wait till you're in there."

Just about ready to reach for the whiskey, something Grant said brought a smile to my face, and restrained me. He leaned in close, and muttered under his breath; "They did deserve it. You only did what the rest of us were thinking. If only I could have thrown those weights high enough."

I chuckled, despite myself.


	14. Stan Lee: Interviewer Extraordinaire

It was with a heavy heart, and a shaky breath that I watched the announcement of each of our scores on TV. Knowing that I would have the worst score, I partially hid behind a cushion, unable to watch. I heard though, the other scores. As per usual, the Careers received quite high scores. Quinn received a nine, and that was the most impressive. The others all received eight. Then, they started to plummet, and the reader almost sounded bored, until he reached little Ace's score. My ears perked up when the number seven was read out, and I had to peek out from behind my wall to ensure that I'd heard correctly. Surprisingly, I had. There was Ace, his innocent, cherubic face staring back at me, _seven_ printed across the screen. I couldn't imagine what he'd done to show the judges, but I was proud all the same.

We all leaned forward as Grant's name was called, and the number eight was read. Our team cheered for him, and clapped him on the back. I flashed him a smile, then braced myself for my own. Everybody ceased their celebrations, as my name was spoken. Closing my eyes, I couldn't bare to watch the disappointment spread across everybody's faces, when the number eleven rings in my ear. _Eleven?_

The announcer was clearly as shocked as I was, and impressed too. I'd received the highest score, for shooting an arrow at an apple. One measly arrow, one measly apple, one measly shot, was worth a staggering eleven? Out of twelve? I couldn't believe my ears.

Everybody was now on their feet. May, who hadn't been expecting such a momentous number, turned to me, with what could only have been awe in her eyes. Coulson was the first to wrap me in his arms, as though the previous conversation about me disappointing them hadn't ever happened. Then Trip, who planted a kiss on my cheek. "Good for you, girl" he told me, grinning. Then my prep team encircled me, assuring me that they had nothing but faith in my abilities.

I turned to Grant, and awkwardly went in for a hug. I was so small, compared to him, and he could have crushed me in his arms, if hadn't had been so delicate in his touch. "Eleven, that's good going," he says, with not even a trace of envy in his voice.

"I think they're trying to taunt me," I confess, in a quiet voice. "So that I'll be targeted first in the Games. Eight however, that's a real score. You earned that."

As though he wasn't used to hearing compliments, his cheeks flushed a slight shade of crimson. He shrugged it off, and allowed Joey to whisk him off, to prepare him for tonight's interview. I let Trip and the others do the same.

"We'll see you in two hours, yes?" called Coulson, though nobody answered.

"I'm going to need longer than two hours, if I'm to face a whole audience" I admit, to Trip's ears alone. He smirks.

"Trust me, girl, when I say that I would only need five minutes with you, and you'll still be the prettiest face on that stage."

I can't help but blush. "I bet you say that to all the tributes" I joke. Then I spot the dress. A magnificent, scarlet dress, floor-length, with long, billowing sleeves. The embroidery that embellished the soft fabric was exquisite, and though the neckline plunged rather far, I didn't mind. It wasn't a little girl dress, and I wasn't a little girl. Reluctant I was not to try it on, and it fit wonderfully. It somehow made me look taller too, and this worked wonders. Trip instructed my hair be let alone to flow long, and he added some kind of spray to make it wavy, and voluminous. I loved it. My make-up flooded a strict rule; dusky. My eyes were a smokey, dark brown, which made my eyes even more chocolatey, and a right red eyeliner was added. My lips were a deep red, and I was showered in the scent of roses. Tall red heels adorned my feet, and though I still had difficulty walking in them, I adored how tall I felt.

Smiling widely, I resisted the urge to touch my face, amazed that he could get me to look so . . . sultry, for lack of a better word. I picked up the hem of my dress, and was about to whirl around and admire the back of the beautiful design, when Trip touched my elbow and shook his head, tapping his nose. "I'd save the twirling for later - trust me." And I do.

We leave my room on schedule, and meet Coulson, May and Grant on time, by the lift. Their eyes fall upon me, and seem fixated. Mouths agape, they're frozen still. Nervously, I turn to Trip, wondering if this was the right kind of reaction. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"When are you going to realise you look beautiful, Daisy?" he sighs, rubbing my back comfortingly, in small circles. Shyly, I drop my face, smiling.

Only May and Coulson travel with us in the lift, as our teams find their seats in the audience. As we reach the final floor, we're whisked outside into a car, where flashes of cameras leave me blinded for a few seconds. Grant sits across from me, and I find that I can't help admire him in his suit. It appears we've been dressed to match, with his tie the same shade of red as my dress. He does look rather handsome. My eyes travel up to meet his, where I see that he's staring back. Bashfully, we both look away.

"Now, in that dress, I think that you could get away with not saying anything after all," May tells me, as we pull up to the City Circle. Already pools of people stand in a que outside, itching to get in and take a peek at this years tributes. "Just smile, and laugh when appropriate."

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I'm going to answer his questions, and I'm going to be myself."

Dismissing my protests, May climbs out of the car, and holds the door open of for us. Grant is out first, and offers a hand to me, when I struggle to take one step in my heels. Reluctantly, I take it, and try my best to ignore the shivers that are sent up my spine. Suddenly, I'm so very aware of the large amount of cleavage on show.

We find our way inside, among the other tributes, Coulson hissing at us to smile, and for me to hold my dress up to refrain from tripping on the hem. We don't smile, and instead walk with our heads held high. I try not to let the stares of the other tributes and their teams put me off, though there's something about the primeval, and hungry look in Quinn's eyes that set me on edge. Grant too.

"He's looking at you as though you're a piece of meat," he hisses. "It's disgusting."

"He's probably just trying to figure out why a girl got a higher score than him" I suggest.

Coulson and May give us a quick rundown of what kind's of questions Stan Lee, who's been the show's host for what seems like forever now, will ask us, and how we need to respond. In my case, smile seductively, or giggle. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes.

Suddenly, I spot the little ones, and bend down to the floor, as they all run at me. I envelop them all, and admire them all in their adorable costumes. Gone are the ridiculous farmer get-ups and tree-all-in-ones. Now, they are all smartly presented in dashing suits and flowing dresses. I fix Ace's tie with a proud smile. "You all look so grown-up!" I tell them all, sincerely. "I love your dresses."

The little girls do tiny spins for me, giggling. One of them tug at mine, and their eyes widen. "You're so pretty," they say, and I thank them, assuring them that they're much more dazzling.

Grant comes up behind me, or he could have been stood there the whole time, and greets all the little ones. He kisses the hands of the girls, and shakes the hands of the boys. Though slightly reserved, they all seem to be thankful for his compliments, and tell him their names. My heart swells as I watch the exchange between them.

Suddenly, we are all called to our stations, and que up by the stage, in district order. This time, the boys go last, meaning Grant is the last one to be interviewed. I stand in front of him, waiting and watching with him. I'm enveloped in the scent of limes, and bergamot, and I find it so soothing.

The girl from District 1, called Lorelei, is up first. Her angle appears to be seductive, though she comes across slightly threatening. Stan plays along however, and pertains in the harmless flirting. Ace swivels round to catch my eye, as I mime being sick. He chuckles.

Next up is Gordon for District 1, and I realise that there is something severely wrong with him as he makes his way up the stairs, cautiously. _He's blind_. It's funny, that being from a Career district, nobody else would have volunteered for him, considering his condition. However, I notice abruptly that their is no walking stick to aid him, and he doesn't have a helper. His other senses must excel, as he needs no assistance whatsoever. He's also quite confident in himself, and I find my pity subsiding almost immediately.

The girl Grant wanted to team up with makes her way up the stage, in a yellow, tulle dress. She laughs at everything Stan says, and touches his hands quite a lot. I let out an audible sigh. All of these girls seem to be playing it one angle - flirtatious. Despite all of May's advice, I am even more determined to ignore it, and just be me. No pretences.

After Quinn's cocky interrogation, I start to lose interest, unless of course it's one of the little ones. Say what you will about the Games, but at least Stan knew how to talk to them, and he could even get a smile out of some of them.

All of a sudden, I feel Grant gently nudging me forward, and I realise my name has been called out. Taking a deep breath, I step out onto the stage, and make my way over to Stan. His reaction is very similar to that of my team's, and he kisses my hand in greeting, then still clutching it, holds me out to the audience for them to admire me too. Feeling completely self-concisous, I'm unsure of what to do. Then, I meet Trip's eyes in the audience, and he spins his finger around, winking. As if gaining my confidence all at once, I offer to do show off my dress to the crows, and so Stan lets me go, and clasps his hands together as I twirl. Suddenly, an amber flickering catches may attention, and I glance down to see flames begin to lick their way up my dress. Knowing Trip as well as I do, I trust that this is one of his intentions, and so continue spinning, until I have the audience gasping, and leaning forward in their seats.

In fear of falling over I cease spinning, and laugh instead. Stan laughs with me, and so does the audience, as we take our seats.

"That's quite an entrance, Daisy!" he chuckles, pressing his glasses forward on his nose. "Though, we all know how spectacular you are with your entrances. Who could forget the opening ceremony! That dress was stunning, as this one is too."

I smile gratefully at him. "They're beautiful aren't they? My stylist, Trip, is extremely talented," I explain, and then with a roguish grin I add: "Though I do get the impression he's not that fond of me. He does keep setting me on fire!"

As the crowd erupt into bouts of laughter, I catch Trip's eye, and he too is amused, shaking his finger teasingly at me. I spot the cameras going in for a close up of him

"Ohh, isn't she so cheeky?" Stan jokes, to the audience. His gleaming teeth reflect the bright lights from the ceiling, and give the impression that is mouth is made completely from diamonds. With the amount of money he probably makes, he could afford it. "Now, besides the fashion, what else do you enjoy about the Capitol?"

I pause, as though thinking hard, despite the fact that I loathe every single thing about this place. Well, almost everything. "The dumplings, and duck sauce" I confess, truthfully. This omits a laugh from the audience, and Stan too. A real one.

"Oh yes, that's a particular favourite of mine," he chuckles. "Now, that show-stopping training score of yours. El-ev-en. Can you give a sneaky hint what happened?"

Thinking back to my demonstration, I bite my lip, and shake my head. "I don't think I can say," I admit. "Though it was certainly a first."

The Gamemakers up on the balcony are, oddly enough, all chuckling heartily, as though I hadn't fired an arrow at them. "Don't tell them anything!" the one with dark-hair called down, laughing, as he mimed zipping his lips shut.

"See, my lips are sealed" I reply. Stan releases a sigh, knowing he won't get anything out of us. Flipping to the back of his cards, his tone has suddenly become quite grave, and the knot in my chest tightens.

"Now, let's go back to the day of the reaping, okay, when you volunteered for that little girl. Could you tell us her name?" Stan asks me, in an inquisitive voice.

"Katya" I answer, in a small voice I fear nobody had heard, and that I would have to repeat myself. I don't think I was capable enough to say her name out loud again.

"Is she close to you, this Katya?" Stan presses, in a soft voice, sensing my trepidation.

Reluctant at first to answer any questions he could possibly have about Katya, I push aside my pride, and take this as a chance to communicate with her. No doubt they'll be forced to watch this back home.

"I love her like a sister," I answer truthfully. This earns a few _awws_ from the audience. "She's the only family I have."

"That's right," Stan nods . "You grew up in an orphanage, didn't you?"

I nod, not wanting to divulge any details that could possibly bring harm onto anybody I know.

"Was it your tough upbringing that allowed to to earn that twelve do you think?" he tried again. I could practically hear May breathing down my neck, hissing words in my ear. _They want an interview. You better open up, or face the consequences in the arena._

"Back home there's a lot of younger ones, little kids. I look after them. I'd find their food, I'd put clothes on their back, I'd wipe their tears. When I turned eleven, I was too old to be babied. I've had to grow up quicker than most, and care for the others. It's them that I'm doing this, going to fight as best as I can" I explain, imagining I was talking with Lincoln back home, and not a room full of botox-injected, plastic Capitol civilians, who tomorrow will be betting on how far I'll make it.

"Did you get to see them before you left?" Stan asks, in a gentler voice.

Looking down at my hands, I struggle to find the words. "I did. I got to speak with Katya," I finally say, especially cautious to leave out the part that involved kissing Lincoln. My eyes flitted towards the cameras, knowing that he'll be watching too. My lips burned at the memory. I furtively raised a hand and brushed my fingertips against my lips, hoping to communicate with him. Hoping to show that I'll remember. "I promised her I would win. I promised her that I wouldn't die in there."

Stan reached out and stroked my hand. His touch was ice cold, and his skin felt leathery. "And what did she say?"

"I was trying to say farewell, and she told me 'this isn't goodbye'," my words failed me, though I refused to let the tears fall. "She said; 'this isn't goodbye, we'll see each other again. I know it'. And I believe her. I have to believe her."

Finally looking up, I saw that there was not a dry eye in the audience. Stan himself dabbed at his eyes, and stood up, holding out a hand for me. I got to my feet too, clutching onto my dress, my other hand in Stan Lee's.

"Ladies and gentleman, please give an enthusiastic round of applause for Daisy Johnson, District 12, the girl on fire!"

The crowd all stood up, cheering heartily. I gave as believable a smile as I could, and returned backstage, where Coulson and may were waiting with expressions of satisfaction. Coulson, too had succumbed to the tearful story I had shared, whilst May looked at me, and grinned, pleased with the show I had given. Angry at her for getting in my head, I pushed past at collapsed into a seat furthest away from them all. I could still see the television screens from where I was, and I watched as Grant was applauded and welcomed by the Capitol audience. He looked rather dashing, I have to admit, and the crowd seemed to think the same thing.

The pair of them participated in an amusing skit about the difference of the showers here than the ones from back home, which included one another sniffing each other. Grant was so sure he smelt of limes. I thought back to earlier, how I had been wrapped in that very same scent earlier, and I smiled. Then, Lincoln's face flashed in front of my eyes. I fell sombre again, though I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.

Just as mine had gone, his interview began light-hearted and spirited, then slowly turned serious.

"Now, Grant, tell us, are there any girls back home that have your heart?" Stan prys, nudging him playfully in the ribs.

He gives an unconvincing shake of his head. Stan picks up on this, and scoffs. "Come on, a handsome lad like you! There must be one girl, one special girl."

Sighing, Grant caves. "There is this one girl. I've liked her for as long as I can remember." I ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. It must still be the butterflies from being out on stage. It _has_ to be the butterflies.

"What's she like?" Stan asks, sensing a real crowd-pleasing anecdote coming his way. "Details, Grant, details!"

"She's so funny, like sidesplittingly. Extremely brave. She's smart and determined. Real independent kind of person. Beautiful too, definitely the prettiest girl at school," he lists, with a big grin on his face. The audience are lapping it up, hanging on to his every word. "The only problem is that a lot of boys like her, and I don't think she ever noticed me until the reaping."

Gritting my teeth, I try my best not to seem jealous, feeling May's intense gaze burn a hole into the side of my head. _He must be talking about Pepper Potts,_ I think, bitterly. _The girl in his year at school with the golden hair._

"Okay, so here's what you do," Stan began, encouragingly. "You win, and you go home. There is no way she can turn you down, eh?" The audience cheers in agreement.

Glancing down at his hands, Grant doesn't look so sure. "Winning won't help me."

Curiously, Stan leans forward, puzzles. "Why not?"

Blushing furiously, he looks into the camera, and his eyes seem to somehow meet mine. "Because . . . because she came here with me" he stammers.


	15. Rooftop Revelations

Oblivious to the sets of backstage cameras that had zoomed in on my face, magnifying my stupefied expression, mouth gaped and eyes wide, I stare speechless at the screen. I don't know how long I remain like this, but I guess it's a while. When finally the cameras switch off, and people begin to spill out this way and that, I find that I my hands are trembling.

Why would he say that? Why would he, on live TV of all places, confess is supposed love for me? Not only has he embarrassed himself, but he's humiliated me. But wait; what if that was the intention? Grant's muscular, and he's clearly strong. He doesn't need the top score in training for people to know that he has a real shot at winning. Me on the other hand, I needed that eleven. Otherwise I'm just another girl, small and skinny from the lack of food, in a pretty dress. People here, they don't see a potential victor. They'll see legs, and breasts, and polished nails. My eyes aren't threatening, they're flattering. My smile isn't the poised grin of a champion, it's the forced beam of a girl who's lost everything.

But my eleven, that knocked everything out of the water. Regardless of my gender, regardless of my size, I showed that I had potential, more potential than the other tributes. This threatened Grant. Oh it all makes sense now. For a moment out there, I was seen as the girl who overcame all obstacles to beat out the competition and earn an eleven. I was strong, and tough, and determined. After his revelation, a new light was shone on me. The eyelash-fluttering, air kiss-blowing tease from District 12. Nevermind my ability to fight, I can make boy's fall for me at the drop of the hat. And this is what they'll focus on. This illusion Grant's built around me, to knock my achievements.

 _That doesn't explain the look on his face though when he talked about you,_ a tiny voice echoed in my mind. _Or the pained expression he gives you every time your eyes meet._

I feel an arm link through my own, and try to resist, when I see that it's Trip, and he's leading me towards the lift. People are pooling around us, many thrusting recording equipment into my face, asking me what my take on the whole situation is. I couldn't answer because words escaped me. Shoving people aside, Trip and I manage to haul ourselves into a cart, which we shared with another tribute and his coach. Catching his reflection in the glass, I see that it's the boy from District 3. Donnie Gill, I think. He is awkwardly fiddling with something in his hands, unable to look at me. When we reach his floor, in a bashful voice, he mutters, "Bad luck."

It's his words that bring me back to reality. To a world where, in under 24 hours, we'll be opponents in a deadly fight to the death. Whether Grant has feelings for me or not has no impact on my ability to kill him, if the time comes.

Or does it?

We arrive at our floor, and somehow May, Coulson and Grant have made it back before us. My eyes meet Grant's, and a huge surge of anger overcomes me. As though he could read my mind, he went to open his mouth, to explain his actions to me, but I leapt on him before he had the chance. My palms connected with his chest, as I pushed him against the wall, with as much force as I could muster. He struggled under my weight, but I had pinned my arm under his chin, keeping his head level with mine.

"What the hell was that!" I demand. Grant is struggling for breath, but I don't care. I want him to know what I'm capable of. I want him to know how angry I can be. That the fact I'm all made-up in a dress and a layer of foundation has no effect on my talent for hunting. "You made me look weak! In their eyes I'm not strong, I'm weak! I'm just a pair of legs to them now!"

"I'm . . . sorry" he rasps. How odd that he doesn't try and fight back? He could knock me to the floor with just one punch, but he doesn't. Why?

"I don't give a damn if you're sorry!" I cry. "It's too late now! All of Panem have seen it!"

May, who's surprisingly strong, manages to pull me off of Grant. Coulson is frantically fretting over a broken vase in the corner, whilst Trip is trying to soothe me. I don't care what they have to say, only what Grant has to say.

"You had no right!" I shout, pointing an accusing finger at him. "No right to say those things about me on national television! People back home are watching that!"

"Daisy, calm yourself down!" May orders, pulling me away from my fellow tribute, as if she was worried I could do some serious damage to him. "This isn't his fault!"

With her words, I snap my attention to her, and narrow my eyes. "Oh my God, this was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of . . . _slut_ for the whole of Panem to laugh at!"

I shake myself free of May's grip, looking at her with pure disdain. "I knew you favoured Grant, but this . . . "

"It was my idea, okay?" Grant said, rubbing his neck. "May, she just helped me with it. She's not to blame."

I scoff, kicking off my blasted heels. I felt ridiculous, still dressed up like this. This was the Capitol's image of me. It in no way reflected who I was. "This is unbelievable," I mutter, running my hands through my hair. "I wondered when you two would team up against me, though I thought you had enough dignity to at least wait until we actually entered the Games first."

"You are a silly, little girl, you know that?" May hisses, in disgust. "You really think this boy did it to spite you? To get an edge up on the competition? Don't be so foolish. He's helped you out more than you could possibly understand."

"He's made me look weak!" I cry out, in disbelief.

"He's made you look desirable!" May spits, bitterly. "That dress only gives the illusion that you're seductive, that you're passionate. You were about as romantic as a lump of coal until that boy said he wants you. Now they all do. Everybody is talking about you. Everybody wants to know more about the star-crossed lovers from District 12."

"We're not star-crossed lovers though - " I begin, until May places her hands forcefully on my shoulders and presses me up against the wall, the freezing stone causing goosebumps to from across my neck and arms.

"You're whatever I say you are, you understand? This is the only way I'm going to be able to bring one of you home," she tells me. "To them, this is just a show. A sob story of an orphaned girl volunteering for her fellow orphan will only get you so far. After your interview, all I could say was that you have a pretty smile. Now, I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, how the boys at home fall at your feet. Oh, how the boys at home swoon as you pass them in the hallway. Oh, how the boys at home fight over you when you're not looking. Which girl, do you think, will get the most sponsors?"

The smell of whiskey on her breath makes me gag, and my head spin. I tear myself away from her, desperately craving fresh air.

"You know she's right," Trip sighs, sidling up next to me.

Leaning against the arm of the chair, I fan myself, feeling both humiliated and used. "Someone should have warned me. I looked so pathetic on screen."

"No, no, you're reaction was perfect," Trip informs me, rubbing my back soothingly. "If you had been told, your reaction would have been prepared, and nobody would have believed it was real."

Gruffly, Grant crossed the room to grab himself a glass of water, which he downed in a single gulp. "She's just worried what her boyfriend will think" he mutters, begrudgingly.

Quickly, my cheeks flush red, at the thought of Lincoln. "Lincoln isn't my boyfriend" I explain, hastily.

"But you knew who I was referring to though, and I didn't mention a name," he retorts, like a petulant child on the playground.

I simply blush again, not sure of how to answer. Out of habit, I make my way towards my room, unable to cope with everybody's stares. However, May stops me, holding out a plate of dumplings and duck sauce for me to take. "You need to eat something, if you're not going to stay and join us for dinner."

Her tone is disapproving, but she knows it's better to let me go, then to argue with me. Glancing at the plate, I roll my eyes. Somebody down in the kitchens must have seen my interview, and heard I liked the dumplings here. I push the plate to the floor, and walk off down the corridor. I reach my room, and twist the doorknob. I slump down into a chair adjacent from the mirror, and stare at my reflection. The girl I see looking back, isn't me. It's not my face. It's not my lips. It's not my cheeks. It's not my hair. I don't recognise her. I don't see the same girl from that morning before the reaping.

That's when I realise; this is who Katya will see on TV. This is who Lincoln will see. That girl spinning round in a pretty dress, _giggling_ , talking about food people back home have never even heard of. In a moment of rage, and anger, I jump out of my chair, knocking it to the floor, and smash the mirror. A scream seeped out of my mouth, as glass shard rained down on the dressing table. Sweeping my arms to the side, I proceeded to push the perfume bottles, assortment of lipsticks, shimmering powders, and the odd earring onto the carpet, spilling the contents of each vial, and box, and container on the teal fabric.

I almost didn't notice Grant stood in my doorway, an almost distant expression on his face.

"Do you recognise me?" I ask him, in a small voice. I can't look him in the eyes, so instead I look out of my window, and down at the parties raging in the streets.

"If you're asking me that, my guess is that you don't," he answered, rather analytically. I sigh, shaking my head. As I bring my hand up to wipe away a stray tear, that is threatening to roll down my cheek, I see my hands stained crimson. Some tiny, but nasty pieces of jagged glass are protruding out of my palm, stinging my flesh. Wincing, I try and conceal them from Grant, but he sees the blood. Rushing over, he insinctively tears off two pieces of cloth from the veil that surrounds my bed. With surprisingly delicate hands he removed the pieces of shard, and carefully wrapped my hands in the light fabric. Adjusting my fingers, I thank him.

I glance up at him, and my breath hitches in my throat when I realise how close he is to me. His eyes are scanning my face, and I find that I feel very self-conscious under his scrutiny.

"They've painted your face," he finally says. "Your lips are a darker shade of red than normal, and your nose seems thinner. Your hair is down - I've never seen it down before. Your skin seems lighter, and you smell of roses."

He's very detailed, and it makes me wonder what he saw before all the make-up had been applied.

"So you don't recognise me then?" I question.

"Your eyes - they're the exact same. Chestnut brown, with amber flecks," he adds. "In them I see the girl who volunteered. It's them that keep you, you. The rest of this, it's just warpaint. Something Trip, and May, and Coulson have decided will make you stand out from the crowd."

 _Warpaint._ Yes, I like that idea. Rather uncomfortable warpaint, but warpaint all the same. Then, my mind wanders back to what Grant said about my eyes, and it really makes me think about how much attention he's really been paying to me.

"I'm sorry about this whole 'secret crush' thing we sprung on you," he begins, until I stop him. In the doorway, are the heads of Nebula, Carina and Gamora, peering out from behind the frame. They see me looking, and start to whisper things to each other, though rather loudly. They then scamper away, about as light-footed as a stampede of wildebeest.

I groan, and walk over towards the door. I contemplate shutting it, but then register the fact that we could still be susceptible to prying ears. I gesture for Grant to follow me, as we make our way out onto the rooftop, where I know for a fact the wind will drown out our discussion.

Slamming the door shut behind me, I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding in, feeling free to say what I think and feel at last.

"They don't know that you and May planned the 'secret crush' thing," I say, the fact dawning on me.

"Oh, I can tell them at breakfast tomorrow if you'd like - " he starts, but I shake my head.

"No it's better they don't know," I explain. "Trust me, those three don't know the meaning of the word 'privacy' - half of Panem will know before lunchtime tomorrow."

Grant chuckles. It's a nice sound, comforting. I can't help but smile back. I walk over to the ledge, and sit down, feeling the cool wind against my skin. Closing my eyes, I sit there, and hold my head up to the sky, exhaling. Grant comes over to join me. Opening my eyes, I see him watching me intently. I hold his gaze, taking in his appearance. He's dressed in his interview outfit, with the exception of his jacket and tie. His white short has been unbuttoned slightly, and his flapping open in the wind, revealing the top of his bare torso. Pursing my lips together, I look away quickly.

We remain like this for a while, and it's peaceful. Though the air is filled with the sound of the wind, which carries up the noise of the festivities below us, is refreshing, and I enjoy it. It's not the quiet of home, but it's quieter than being surrounded by the hustle and bustle of our team. I don't feel quite so suffocated out here.

"I can't stand it," Grant says, through gritted teeth. With furrowed eyebrows, I look over at him, and see his gaze fixated on the streets below, and the carnival they seem to be having. "They're down there, partying and eating and drinking - something they've been doing the whole time we've been here - celebrating the arrival of another Games."

I didn't realise that the people of the Capitol had been partying all week. Though, I had been shutting myself away the whole time, retiring to bed early to escape everything. Grant, who's more tuned in to things, probably noticed the first night.

"It makes you wonder, if they know what the situation is like in the districts," he sighs. "The fact they stuff their faces at every chance they get, whilst people back home are starving."

"Have you ever starved?" I blurt out, without thinking. Grant, who I can tell his embarrassed by his answer, shakes his head. "Well I have. Before I came here, I'd never had three meals a day. It's breakfast or lunch, lunch or dinner. Sometimes it's neither. More often than not, I give up my meals for one of the younger ones, who need the protein, or calcium more than me. If I didn't go hunting, I wouldn't have anything to give the others. Watching them, down there, is like watching you and your family shop in the bakery, or even the patisserie."

I see the look on Grant's face, and though I don't feel guilty for it, I do apologise. "I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you, but it's the truth," I tell him, in a quiet voice. "You have a choice between those shops in town. The only place I can afford to visit is the Hob."

"I'm ashamed of who I am, of who my father is," Grant finally says, sincerely. Is expression is strained, as though he's in pain to say these words out loud. "The fact that I can go to bed full, when I know you, and others from the Seam, are still out there, scavenging for food, it mortifies me. I look down at my stocky build, and I hate it. You're so skinny, and I've seen the other orphans. Their ribs are visible through their clothes. It's despicable you get so used to being hungry, and I can barely go a few hours without sticking my hand into the biscuit jar out of habit. It's wrong, and I hate that my father has done nothing to help you."

He's done it again. Grant Ward has done it again. He's said something so staggeringly profound, I can only sit speechless, dumbfounded.

"I don't want to have to kill you in there," I admit, and I seem to be almost pleading with him. "And I don't think I could cope if I have to watch you die either."

Just as Grant is about to say something back, Coulson appears on the rooftop with us, his face red. "You'll both catch a cold up here! You need to get some rest for tomorrow, for heaven's sake!"

We both soundlessly made our way back inside, not saying another word. As I turn my doorknob, I glance behind me and watch Grant disappear inside his room. Sighing, I do the same thing. Thinking back to his words on the rooftop, about how ashamed he is of who he is, compared to me, and just the fact he noticed, makes my heart beat ten times faster.


	16. Let The 74th Annual Hunger Games Begin!

Waking up is usually hard. However, climbing out of bed the morning I was being sent to my certain death, was especially challenging.

I don't think I had more than two hours sleep, and the little sleep I did have was interrupted rather frequently by images of the past Games flashing through my mind. Is was around seven-thirty that I heard Coulson knocking on my door, calling through the wooden panels for me to 'rise and shine'. Only somebody from the Capitol could have such positive things to say on a day like this. Rolling my eyes, I proceeded to jump in the shower, trying to savour every moment.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was rather subdued, and dejected. Nobody could make eye contact with anyone, and the breakfast consisted of more alcohol than normal - though it seemed that only me and May were drinking. Coulson was the first to speak, and gave me a drilling about how I would regret drinking straight gin quite so early on in the morning.

"You'll get an awful headache tomorrow if you - "

"I could be dead tomorrow," I blurt, shrugging. I then pick up the glass and down the rest of the contents, as if to prove a point. "So I'll have another, please."

After breakfast, I'm allowed a few minutes to say some parting words with my team, before we're expected downstairs. Nebula, Gamora and Carina, all with tears in their eyes, hug me, and glance between me any Grant with despondency. Clearly we made a believable 'star-crossed lovers' duo, and I saw this as a blessing. If these three had fell for the ruse, and they knew me, how many of the sponsors have too?

Trip hugs me the longest and the tightest, and the mere thought of not getting to see him again brings a tear to my eye. "Dry your eyes girl, I'm coming with you," he smiles, linking his arm in mine. I grin, preferring him to accompany me over May any day. Joey joins me and Grant in the lift ride down too, and he seems to be a bit teary-eyed too.

I see that Grant has been dressed in the same outfit as me, which consisted of a thin black tee, a lightweight black jacket with an orange stripe, brown, tight-fitting trousers, and brown leather boots that stopped at my shin.

"Where do you think there sending us?" Grant mutters in my ear.

Tugging at my outfit, I take a guess. "Judging by the clothes they've given us, a forest or something like that. There fit for running, and to keep us warm." Spotting the knowing look on Trip's face, I've guessed correctly. Being an expert on fashion, he's know exactly what each material is purposed for.

I'm lead into a room with Trip, and Grant is taken in to the one next to us. If I had known this would have been the last time I would see him, properly, for a few days, I would have said something. Wished him luck even. A voice announces a five minute waiting time through the speakers, and I feel my stomach knot up. It's a horrible sensation, kind of like falling, and being sick, and getting punched all at the same time. My breathing becomes ragged, so Trip sits me down on the bench, and holds my hands, comfortingly.

"Listen girl, you'll be okay, I promise," he tells me, assuringly. "You've got more guts in your little finger than anybody I've ever met."

"I don't think that where my guts are supposed to be" I retort, more out nerves than an attempt to be funny. Trip laughs regardless, and kissed my forehead. Then, he reaches into his pocket and brings out my gold eagle pin, which he pins to the underside of my jacket. I ask him where he found it, and he explains how he unpinned it from my training outfit.

"You're each allowed a token to bring into the Games with you. I've already cleared it with the authorities, and though they suspected it could be used as a weapon, they let you have it anyway."

I smile, gratefully. "Thank you. For everything."

"I've done nothing," he replies, shrugging. "It's all been you."

I look down at my hands, beaming. If I don't survive the Games, Trip is definitely among a very limited number of people I'll miss. We sit in comfortable silence for a while, as he braids my hair into my trademark braid, until the announcer calls to tell us to step into the lifts. I exhale sharply, and step in the clear contraption. The doors don't shut immediately, and I see this as a sign to ask one last thing.

"When Grant said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him too?"

"I did. The way you were blushing, and stared up at the screen. I really did believe that you could have feelings for that boy."

I blush once more, but now at least I know. I can pretend to have feelings for Grant, if it means I can stay alive, and people will believe it.

Suddenly the door swings shut, and I wave anxiously out to Trip. He waves back, and that's that.

After what feels like hours of travelling further down, I finally reach the catacombs under the Training Centre, and I'm taken aback by how big it is. There are eight hovercrafts waiting for us, Capitol employees stationed at each one to direct us in. I'm pulled over to hovercraft number five, and pushed inside. I find a seat, and immediately feel as though I've been slapped sharply round the face. Next to me, is Quinn. He's grinning rather arrogantly, and even has the audacity to shoot me a wink. Across from me, is Raina. She's deliberately staring at me, trying to unnerve me. I just ignore her, and turn my attention to a woman in a white coat who, rather harshly, asks me to hold out my arm. She roughly pushes up my sleeves, and pulls out a large needle. Feeling both Quinn and Raina's scrutinising glares, I refuse to let the fear show on my face. However I can't refrain from wincing as some small metal object is injected under my skin. I can see it flashing white.

"I know right. Hurts like a bitch" Quinn says, showing me his arm. His light is flashing white too. I can see Raina's flashing green, however. There can't be twenty-four colours for each of us, so they must mean something. Least likely to win, perhaps? But that doesn't explain why a share the same colour as Quinn. Puzzled, I try to think about something else.

"Where is this hovercraft taking us?" I ask, to no one in particular. This time it's Raina who answers.

"To the arena, of course," she scoffs, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. And I suppose it kind of is.

Soon, the hovercraft is lifted into the air, and in a matter of minutes we've landed in another catacomb. We're directed into another room, where now I have to wait alone. I sit there, and though the wait is considerably shorter, it feels like a century without company.

Suddenly, the announcer calls out to us to climb into our lifts again. I comply, and struggle to calm my breathing. The door swings shut, and soon I'm being lifted up. The light hits me first, and I have to look away. When my eyes adjust, I find myself stood on a podium, in a clearing. Surrounding me are trees, and behind the trees are hills, covered with more trees. A forest. I was right.

I feel a weight lifted off of my chest. I can survive here. I can hunt. I know how to find water, and how to build a shelter, and how to keep warm. I'll be okay. As long as I find myself a bow and arrow, and pick off anybody who gets close, I could actually win. A ghost of smile dances on my lips, when I realise I have a real shot.

And that's when I see them all. All the little ones stood on their podiums. Scared, intimidated, frightened. Looks of sheer terror, and expressions of hopelessness adorn their tiny faces, and I feel my heart sink. I can't win this. Not if I have to watch them all die.

A glinting catches my eye, and I turn my head to see a bow and arrow in clear view, as though it was put there especially for me. I suspect it probably was. The Gamemakers seem to be daunting me. Just to my left are all the little ones clustered together on purpose. Then right in front of me awaits a bow and arrow. It's a choice I have to make, which one I'll run to first, and it's a choice I have to make quickly. There's a countdown on top of the Cornucopia, which is the giant, golden horn structure shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least seven metres high, spilling over with things that could mean life or death to us in the arena. The clock reads ten seconds. _Ten seconds to make a decision._

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Zero.

"Ladies and gentleman, let the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin!" cries Stan Lee. I could picture his toothy, sparkling grin in my mind as his voice echoes around the arena.

I choose the little ones. Grabbing a backpack a couple of metres away from me, I waste a couple of seconds that would have saved the girl from District 9's life. I watch as a small dagger is buried into her back, knocking her to the floor. The one who threw it was Kara, the girl from District 2. Biting back the tears, I put her at the top of my list of lives I won't be conflicted about taking.

However, that will have to wait. I gather up the four other little ones, taking two by the hand, one clambering onto my back, and jet off towards the safety of the tree line. Ace can keep my pace, and I spot that he too has a backpack. "Don't look behind you!" I call to the kids, hearing the battle rage on. One of Kara's dagger soar past us and bury itself into a tree a few inches away. Soon we're concealed by the shrubbery, but that doesn't mean I slow down.

I keep going for another few miles, until I can feel the little ones struggling. They're panting, and tripping over stick after stick. Running for any longer won't do them much good. I need to find somewhere safe to hide us all. I'd retrieved the knife Kara had thrown at the tree, and I tuck it into my pocket for later use. I find a decent sized tree, with long enough branches that could conceal us all. I pull the children to the side, and ask if any of them can climb trees. They all nod, and I smile at them. Hurriedly, unsure whether I was imagining the footsteps behind us or not, I pointed to the tree, and instructed them all to clamber up it. They all had no problem, and this managed to lift my spirits up slightly. Ace was particularly skilled at making his way up the thick oak, soaring up to the highest branch. I made sure that they all were nice and high up, and secure, before I started to ascend. Now I was certain I could hear people tearing through the woods, gaining on us. I joined the boy from District 8, who was trembling so much I had to hold him close against me, to muffle the chattering of his teeth.

I didn't dare to look down, and give away our cover. I didn't need to look down to know who was down there. Quinn's voice was stringent, ordering the other Careers about. I distinctly heard my name, and I knew that he hadn't taken my rejection of his offer quite so well. Technically, I hadn't refused anyone, but he told me that it was either him or the little ones. Clearly, he must have seen me take off with them all.

When I was certain the Careers had moved along, I start to consider our next move whilst rifling through the backpack. One thin, yet rather large sleeping bag that reflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a two-litre plastic bottle that's bone dry. Small packs of food, not enough to share among five people, and absolutely no water. We can't stay up in the tree, thirsty and starving, but I can't risk bringing them all down only to wander around the woods to find another tree to hide in. I have to go alone, and bring back something to eat, maybe even news of a better shelter.

Leaning forward, I make sure I have all of the little one's attentions. "Is everybody listening?" I whisper, receiving a round of eager nods. "You're all exhausted, and I don't want to take you all away from such a great hiding place, but we're going to need food and water. I know how to find some, and I'll only be an hour, two at tops, but that will mean having to leave you all here. Will you be alright by yourselves for a couple of hours?"

I can see that my suggestion is met with some reluctance, and I know what they all must be thinking. "I promise I'll come back, okay? I'm not going to leave you here." They still look a little skeptical. I hold up a finger, as an idea strikes me. I peel of the backpack, and hand it to the girl from District 6. She, I believe is the eldest. "In there is everything I would need if I have any chance of surviving alone. I want you to keep it safe for me, until I get back."

This confirms to them that I was telling the truth, as all their expression relax a little, and some even breath a sigh of relief. "You're all to behave whilst I'm gone, okay? If you're going to talk, whisper, and no climbing down. I want you all to stay here, in this exact spot, alright?" As I begin my descend, I realise that I'm, in effect, leaving a bunch of twelve and thirteen year olds without anything to defend themselves with. But then to give up my dagger, would be to render me defenceless. Looking at all their tiny faces however, I succumb to their hopelessness, and hand Ace the weapon. "Only use this in desperate measures, okay? No throwing it down, only if someone is climbing up. I can trust you with this, can't I?"

He grins at me, nodding earnestly. I ruffle his hair, and smile at the rest of them. "I know exactly how many crackers are in that bag, okay. I've got my eye on you," I tease, joking narrowing my eyes at the boy from District 5. He laughs, and I wink at him. "See you in time for dinner, okay?"

And with that I start to scale back down the tree, landing on the soft pile of leaves below. To put my mind at ease, I step back, and pretend as though I was walking by, and casually glance up at the oak tree. I can't see either of the little ones. Smiling to myself, I head off in the opposite direction, in search of water. I tap my jacket pocket to make sure that I brought the water bottle. Fortunately, I did. I had also brought the coil with me too, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

Using all the knowledge I've ever acquired from my seven years of hunting, and foraging, I remember that water travels downstream, and that by heading down a slope, I'll have better luck finding a water source. A rabbit rustles around in a bush besides me, and hops out idly, crossing my path. Out of habit I reach behind me to draw an arrow, but instead my hand only finds air. I sigh, and continue to walk on. It's shame I didn't have that bow with me; that rabbit seemed like easy pickings. Then I see it as a good sign. If there's one rabbit, there must be more. Hopefully the rest of them won't have much experience being hunted, to make the job much more simple for me.

I don't like being so low, surrounded by a valley. It makes me feels trapped, vulnerable to all kinds of attacks. If I was high up, I could at least see my enemy. But then I'd be even further from any kind of water source, and further from the little ones. Just at the mere thought of them, all huddled together in that tree, my pace quickens. I don't want to be a second later than I needn't be, and let them think I've given up on them.

It's when I hear a twig snap after about forty minutes of mindless walking, that I feel my heart leap into my mouth. I freeze, and drop to the floor, crouching behind a small cluster of shrubbery. Peeking between the leaves, I spot the slender frame of Donnie Gill, the tribute from District 3. He's unarmed, though ladened down heavily with a backpack brimming with treats. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and curse the Gamemakers. Of course _I_ get the crappy backpack with the crappy supplies, whilst the boy from 3 gets what appears to be fresh fruit and a slingshot. In his rush - I can't quite see who or what he's running from - two pairs of sock fall from his back. I'm not quite sure what he would have needed two pairs for, but I waste no time in scooping them up when the coast is clear. I pocket them alongside the water bottle, feeling rather satisfied with my find.

Suddenly, I feel the ground give way under my feet, and it's only when I start to fall do I realise I was stood on the edge of a rather steep slope, which happened to be incredibly unsteady. I have to bite my lip to stop a scream from escaping my lips. I'm falling for a good few seconds, until I finally splash into a little stream. My shirt has been slashed slightly, by my abdomen, and my trousers took the same kind of battering, and I'm feeling sore all over. However, landing into cool, and refreshing water pushed all thoughts of pain aside, and I was just happy to have found something to drink. Parched and dry like sandpaper, my mouth was crying out for nourishment. I started to lap up the water using my hands, splashing the liquid onto my face. Then, I took out my bottle and filled it to the brim. Luckily the bottle was quite big, and would hold enough fluid for a good couple of sips for everyone.

Strolling alongside the stream, I tried to find an easier way up. Instead, what I did spot was a rabbit, nonchalantly chewing on a piece of grass. Promptly, I leaped forward without a seconds hesitation, and caught the rabbit in my hands. Grimacing, I snapped it's neck with my bare hands, apologising under my breath. I never liked this part about hunting, and would usually ask Lincoln to do it. The rabbit stopped twitching, so I wrapped a piece of the copper wire around it's leg, and slung it around my shoulder.

On my way back to the tree, I caught one more rabbit, with two unsuccessful attempts - word must be getting around, because I saw less and less wildlife on the way back then I did on the way to the stream - and found a cluster of wild juneberries beside the stream. I knew they were juneberries, despite them being extremely rare in District 12, because of their distinct similarities with blueberries. They're bigger than their blue counterpart, and considerably more purple, and even red, and sweeter too. Proud of my horde, I retraced my steps back to the oak tree, with a big grin on my face.

After such a successful conquest, I don't think that I was at all prepared for what I saw when I returned to the tree.


	17. In Which A Mountain Lion Features

I could hear them all before I could see them. Their screams echoed around the arena, and had powered me to sprint the last mile to reach them.

When I finally reach them, there's no time to freeze, and stare any longer at the scene - I have to act. I drop the two rabbits on the floor, and my water bottle to the floor, without knowing that the cap hadn't been screwed on properly. All the water flushed out, and I cursed under my breath. There was nothing I could do now however.

Instead I slowly and quietly approach the tree, and at the mountain lion pawing at the bark underneath, growling at the little ones who are cowering from the beast, struggling to stay out of it's reach. However the beast stays firmly on the ground, occasionally outstretching a taloned paw towards one of their legs. I shake my head, knowing that this is no ordinary mountain lion. I've seen ones back home that can scale a fifteen foot tree, with ease. This one, it's toying with them. Any time it wanted it could jump up there and rip apart any of the children, yet it stays on the ground. Why?

I raise a finger up to my lips and look up at the children. Bending down to my feet, I pick up the dagger that had feel to the ground in all the chaos. The silver metal firmly in my hand, I then swiftly bring my hand up to the mountain lion's bag, and sink the dagger in. It howls, and turns on me immediately. It knocks me to the floor with it's incredible weight, and I cry out, feeling it's claw dig into my right forearm. With my legs I hold it away from me, as it's teeth gnash viciously in my face. It swipes it's claw across my right cheek, and the pain is blinding. I yell out again in pain, and try with all my might to kick it off me. Suddenly, when I can feel my legs give way, the mountain lion wails, and collapses on top of me. I scream, then I realise it's not moving. I push it off of me, feeling my blood seep down my arm, and spot Ace, dagger bared, hovering over me. He stabbed the mountain lion. He saved my life.

Bashfully, he helps me to my feet. Instantaneously I envelop him in my arms, and plant a kiss on his forehead. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," I whisper. Then he pulls away, and the solemn look on his face confirms my worst fear. In all the disorder and bedlam, I must have missed the cannon going off. I can feel the sob rising in my throat, and I clasp a hand to my mouth to stop it from coming out. I look up to the tree, and see only the girl from 6, and the boy from 8. Scanning the forest around me, I spot the boy from 5 in a crumpled heap just left to the tree. I don't realise it, but my legs carry me over to him, and it's with horror that I see his face is unrecognisable, mauled and shredded apart by the mountain lion.

I know that all cameras will be on me now, and that this boy's family back home will be forced to see his body like this. Quickly, yet with as much delicacy as I could, I gather a bunch of flowers, and surround his silhouette with the purple bloom. I kiss my fingertips, and I place them on his forehead. At least I think it's his forehead. My hands come back bloody, and I refrain from wiping them against my trouser leg.

"Farewell," I mutter, in a voice barely audible. "Tomorrow will be kinder."

It's with a heavy heart that I pick myself up, and gather up the rest of the little ones. I instruct the smallest one, the girl from 6 to clamber onto my back, and I check to see if Ace has the backpack. He does. And he's picked up the rabbit too, and salvaged what he can of the water. Handing me the bottle to pocket, he gasps. "You're bleeding pretty badly," he tells me softly, glancing between my forearm and my face. "It looks pretty nasty."

"Don't worry about me, it's us we need to focus on. We have to run now. All of our screams will have alerted the entire forest to our position, and no doubt they're on their way now. But if we go now, I'm positive we can out run them. It will be dark out soon. We just have to be quick, okay?"

They all agree, and I don't waste any more time talking. We all bound off in the opposite direction of the stream, and cover a good few miles until I can hear the laughter of the Careers. Immediately I lead the little ones over to a tree, and help them up. I then position myself quite a far distance away from the tree, so they won't suspect anything.

Quinn is the first face I see, and he's grinning at me. Beside him stands Kara, and then Lorelei and Gordon, the tributes from District 1. He's brandishing a rather lethal looking sword, which he's swinging around in his hands, skilfully. Looking to his left, I see Kara has the bow and arrow slung around her shoulder. _My bow and arrow._ Lorelei and Gordon are also ladened down with a weapon each; she has a sword and he has a spear. I notice, though I wish that I didn't, each weapon was garnished with crimson. Fresh blood dripped off the spearhead, poured off the arrow tips, and weeped off of both blades, and landed in the grass under their feet.

"Daisy, funny running into you here!" Quinn jokes, with a malignant grin. "You missed out on a lot of fun at the Cornucopia."

"You guys look like you've had a blast," I agree, in a tone equally as pernicious. "Shame I don't consider murdering innocent kids fun."

"Different upbringings I suppose," he shrugs. "So, where have you been hiding out?"

"Oh you know, here and there," I retort. "Under this bush, behind that rock. I want to know where you've been. Four people, all bundled inside one cave; couldn't have been easy hiding."

Quinn chuckles to himself. "It's five of us," he says, gesturing to a tall figure running towards us. "Lover Boy here just hasn't shut up about you. I guess it's sweet."

"It's irritating" Kara adds, in a monotonous tone. She is regarding me with such a deplorable stare, I begin to worry about what she plans on doing with her bow and arrows.

But then I realise I don't care. I'm just so shocked to see Grant with the Career pack. He's armed with a spear too, and I can barely stand to look at him when I see that his too is coated in blood. That double-crossing son of a bitch! I watch with caution as Grant's eyes widen when he sees me.

"Look who we found Ward," Lorelei mocks, as she saunters over to me. She runs the tip of her blade down my good arm. I do my best to keep the fear off of my face.

Grant gulps, and throws himself forward. Quinn keeps him back, but Grant just shrugs him off, and launches forward. He stands in front of me, and tries to search my face. I keep how I'm really feeling hidden, and only look at him with utter disgust.

"You have every single right to be ashamed of yourself right now," I spit at him. "Because not only are you a lying bastard, you're gutless, and a coward. You know that they're just going to kill you when they've finished using you right? Just like they killed everybody else at the Cornucopia."

"Daisy, listen - "

But I don't want to listen. I don't want to succumb to any more of his lies. In an attempt to conceal the tears threatening to spill, I punch him square in the jaw, most likely breaking a few knuckles in the process. He stumbles backwards, and I can hear Quinn laughing. When I see the blood rush from his nose, I feel a tiny twinge of guilt.

"I told you she was feisty," Quinn says to nobody in particular.

"What to do with you, what to do" hums Lorelei, circling me.

"You could let me go free, that's an idea," I suggest, with which I only receive a few sniggers. "Or how about just not kill me?"

"Now where are those brats of yours?" Kara sighs, looking idly at one of the arrowheads.

I clench my jaw. "What you mean the good, and innocent children? I don't know. They all ran off. We came across a mountain lion."

"Oh, we saw. Shame about that little boy" Quinn says, pouting sarcastically.

"That cut looks sore," sighs Gordon, as he too approaches me. "Get that from the mountain lion?"

"Of course she didn't," scoffs Kara. "Does it look like she could kill a mountain lion?"

"Quit whining" Quinn begins, until I cut him off.

"No she's right, I didn't kill it," I explain, nodding. "I only fought it. It's Ace, the little boy from 11 that killed it."

"He prods my leg with his spear, roughly, so I counteract by tugging at the weapon, then pushing back with all my might, thrusting the butt of the spear into his _sensitive area._ Crying out in pain he falls to the floor, and rolls around. Lorelei calls me a bitch, and holds her sword up high to deliver a fatal blow, when I kick her in the kneecap, forcing her forward onto the floor. I snatch the sword from her hands, and when she resists, I kick her again in the head. It must have been a pretty hard kick, because I don't see her move afterwards. No cannon however, so I only just knocked her out. Unfortunately.

Before any of the others could lash out, I run. I know I've left the little ones behind, but the sky has grown dark, and the Careers couldn't possibly have known where they were. I'm hoping that I've pissed them off enough so they'll chase me, rather than look for them. The heavy footsteps I hear behind me confirm that I have.

Fortunately, I'm a fast runner, and I'm positive I've shook them off. Sadly, I haven't. I have just enough time to scale up a tree, and get high enough so that when the four of them - five if you include the unconscious Lorelei they dragged with them - are upon me, I'll have to hope that they're not good climbers.

I watch as they try, and try again, with no success to reach up on my branch. I take great pleasure in watching Quinn fall to the ground, and land with a deafening _thud._ When Kara pulls out the bow, I tense up, and lean into the base of the tree, breathing heavily. However, as three, no four arrows soar past me, not even close to skimming my body, I know that she has never had any experience with a weapon like that before.

"Oh come on Kara!" I call down, feeling brave. "Have one more shot, I think you're starting to get the hang of it!"

She curses under her breath, and tosses the bow aside. Angrily, she herself tries to lamber up the tree, but instead puts her feet in all the wrong footholds.

"Don't they have trees back in 2?" I ask, mockingly.

"Oh, you're so bold, when you're that far up!" she shouts up to me. To tease her further, I cup my hand to my ear, and strain forward, as though struggling to hear. "Why don't you come down, so I can put you on your ass!"

Her face is turning crimson, as I clearly begin to frustrate her. Quinn calms her down, though I see that I've started to annoy him too. They all huddle together, and start to talk strategies, ways to coax me down. I notice that Grant keeps shooting me concerned stares out of the corner of his eye, which I try my best to ignore.

"Listen, why don't we just wait her out?" he suggests. "She'll have to come down at some point."

I grit my teeth and shake my head at him. Nobody from 12 has ever teamed up with the Careers. I can imagine what they're saying about him back home, the names they're calling him. Oh how humiliating this must be for the Mayor. I find that I don't care what people think about him. It surely can't be as bad as what I'm thinking right now in my head.

The Careers all agree, rather reluctantly, but they agree. They set themselves down, and start up a fire. As the sun goes down, I resist the temptation to join them, feeling the bitter air bite at me bare flesh, causing my cuts to sting ferociously. I hadn't had enough time to realise just how deep my gashes were, but looking down at them now, in the moonlight, I could see just how severe, and raw they were. The one on my arm was a good six inches long, and about an inch or two deep. It hadn't stopped bleeding the whole time, and the blood itself was so crimson it was nearly black. My sleeves had been shredded, yet tufts of fabric still managed to cling on, and as I tore the cotton material from my flesh, I had to bite down on my collar to stop myself from screaming out. I pulled out the bottle from jacket pocket, and shook it. Luckily I had managed to keep a good litre, litre and a half in the bottle, which was more than I could have hoped for. Taking a large swig of the liquid, I filled the cap, and then proceeded to clean my wound. Tears began to prick the back of my eyes, and I couldn't help but release a little whimper.

The whole right side of my face felt as though it were on fire, and though I couldn't see the cut, I knew it was bad. Not as bad as the one on my arm however, which I had now bandaged using a strip of the material off of my shirt. The blood had dried, and with gentle fingers, I managed to touch the gashes, and discovered I had three cuts of the same size trailing down my face and stopping short halfway down my neck. Fortunately for me the mountain lion had missed my eye by a few centimetres, keeping my sight intact.

Using the cord of wire I still had in my pocket, I tie myself to the tree, to prevent myself from falling out. If they really are going to sit down there and wait for me to come down, then I plan on staying up in this tree for as long as I can.

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep. It's only for a few hours, and I probably could have gone for another few more, if I wasn't woken up by this subtle bleeping noise, coming from beside my ear. My hand wrapping around the dagger I kept in my pocket, I turn to my side, expecting an intruder, when I'm surprised to see a parachute, hanging from a thin branch. The message on top reads; _don't lose faith in him just yet_. Immediately I know that it was written by May, and she was referring to Grant. Glancing down, I spot him wide awake, fiddling with the silver ring on his finger. I lean in hastily, not wanting him to look up and see me staring at him. Not that I was staring at him.

In the parachute, is a tub of ointment, which I can only assume is for cuts. It smells like aloe vera, and it's almost refreshing. Scooping up a chestnut size amount, I lather it on to the cut in my forearm. Yet again I have to bite down on my collar, because this time it's burning. I couldn't see how this was supposed to help in any way whatsoever, as the tears stream down my face. This only stings my face too. With my free hand I pound my thigh out of agony and torment, the pain searing through my flesh.

Then, just when I was positive my arm was going to fall off, a cooling sensation courses through my nerves, and my wound practically numbs itself. The discomfort isn't even detectable. I breathe a sigh of relief, and lean back against the tree. I know that I'll have to go through it all again when I apply the ointment to my face, but at least this time I know what the outcome will be.

A few hours later, after a much more soundless sleep, I awake when the first signs of dawn appear. I stretch my arms out, and sneak a peek towards the ground. Grant has finally gone to sleep, along with all the others. Untying myself, I see this as a chance to escape. I'm about to put one foot on the branch below, when a buzzing in my ear distracts me. Swatting what I assumed was a fly from out of my face, I continue the descent, when I turn to my left and become face-to-face with a hive. A fully-functioning hive, home to thousands of the presumably poisonous insects. I've only ever come across a hive like this once before, and I know immediately what it is.

 _Trackerjackers._

Genetically-engineered wasps created by the Capitol during the Dark Days. Most people can't stand more than a few stings. Most die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom are said to be so realistic, they can drive people to madness. Cautiously, I make my way back up to where I was before, careful to be as silent as I could.

That's why when I could see Ace waving at me through the leaves, it took all I had not to scream from the top of my lungs.

 _Cut the branch,_ he mouthed to me, motioning sawing off the wood. _Cut the branch and drop the nest on the bullies below._

See, now this would have been such a good idea, if I hadn't been conflicted about injuring Grant.


	18. He Caught Me

My reluctance to drop the tracker jacker hive onto the Career pack, or more specifically on Grant, must have shown in my expression, because Ace gives me the oddest of looks. Furrowing his eyebrows, he cocks his head. Then suddenly his almond-shaped eyes flit down below, to Grant's sleeping body, and it's as though he read my mind. His features soften, and he seems to understand the argument I was currently having in my mind.

 _He's furthest away,_ Ace mouths, gently. _He'll get stung, but he won't be killed._

Ace was right. Yes, Grant is at a high risk of being stung, but he has a better chance of escaping before the others. And anyway, he deserves to be stung. He's betrayed our team, he's betrayed his district, and he's betrayed me. Me, the girl who opened up to him, and allowed him through the crack in my defences. I told him I couldn't kill him, and he confessed how he really felt. I'd believed him, as well as everything else that had ever came out of his mouth. Now, I'm doubtful. He'd expressed a very clear hatred for Quinn, yet here he is, in some kind of formed alliance with him and the Careers.

Looking down on him now caused asperity and remorse to pulse through my mind. I was torn between killing him, and wanting to protect him. It perhaps would have been easier if he were awake, but instead he was asleep. And a slumbering Grant Ward was harmless, and he looked so innocent. The rising sun glinted off of the silver ring on his finger, and the image of Petra Ward seared across my brain. I couldn't kill Grant Ward, even if I wanted to, because of the debt I owed her. The unspoken debt.

Then I remembered the promise I made to Katya, about returning home to her. I can't just sit up here and wait for somebody else to come by and kill the Careers. Somebody had to do it. For my survival, and for the survival of the little ones, who have had to spend a night up in a tree alone, without any water, any warmth, any help.

I don't remembering hearing any cannons throughout the night, but as I think back, I mentally scold myself when I realise I slept through the anthem, where the faces of the dead are projected into the sky. That ointment must have had some kind of sleeping agent concealed inside, because there was no way I was _that_ exhausted. That means there could have been cannons fired, and I would have been none the wiser.

Eagerly, I shoot a look at Ace that conveyed how desperate I was for news. He holds up two fingers, and I feel my stomach lurch. Then, to my relief he shakes his head, confirming none of our teammates have died.

Then I remember the girl from District 9, and I grit my teeth. Kara is in my direct line of fire if I was to drop the hive. She would be the first to go. Finally making a decision, I pull out my dagger, and begin to saw the branch. The grooves in the blade make cutting noisy work, and I'm more worried about alerting the tracker jackers than I am waking the Careers. When a few of the hybrid wasps fly out, to curiously inspect me, they land on my arm, and begin to sting me. At first the initial pain is bearable, so I persevere through. I continue to slice through the bark, until the pain becomes excruciating. Not one, not two, but three more tracker jackers land on my body, and I acquire one sting on my neck, one sting on my knuckle, and one sting on my collarbone. Almost immediately I can feel them start to swell up, and the venom burn through my nerves. If I'd thought applying that ointment was bad, this was a hundred times worse.

Biting my lip, I couldn't risk making a sound. Finally, when I thought that I would black out from the pain, the branch gives a loud _crack_ and snaps off, falling to the ground. The hive immediately splits open, releasing all the tracker jackers, who were all now extremely agitated. The Careers all awake, and are up and screaming in a split second. Kara, unfortunately, heard the crack of the branch, and scuttled away with only a few minor stings, along with Quinn, whilst Lorelei took the brunt of the tracker jackers' fury. There was nothing she could have done, and was out cold before she could even attempt to swat any away. The cannon fired, scaring off most of the tracker jackers.

I watched as Gordon stumbled into the shrubbery, screaming in agony, but managed to get away. Kara and Quinn managed to escape, and I made certain that Ace hadn't been anywhere near the chaos. I started to feel my head cloud over, and I was growing ever-so dizzy, when I started to look for Grant. He was nowhere to be seen, and I was torn between wondering if this was a good thing or not.

Suddenly, I fell. I must have imagined leaning onto a branch, because one second it was there, the next it wasn't. I must have fell ten, fifteen feet, and I had nearly blacked out when I landed. It wasn't nearly as dreadful as I had imagined, and none of my bones felt broken. That's when I realised I had landed not on the ground, but in somebody's arms. In a drowsy haze, I tilted my head up, and saw that my saviour was Grant. Though he had been stung pretty badly, and he was trembling due to shock, he still had enough strength to keep me up, and catch me.

"You . . . you betrayed me," I mumble, through half shut eyes, and a lethargic slur. "I tru . . . trusted you . . . and you betrayed . . . me."

"I know, I'm sorry," he told me, struggling to stay upright, and carry me to safety. I guess I wasn't helping, being nothing but deadweight in his arms. Yet, if he was having difficulty running away, why was he holding on to me? Why did he keep me in his arms? "I want to keep you alive."

"Why . . . me?" I asked, though now I was starting to see blank spots before my eyes.

I don't hear what he says next, because another cannon fires. I can only hope that it's signalling the death of Quinn. But then another horrid thought enters my mind - is it for me? Because my vision goes black, and I feel my limbs go limp at my sides. I hear voices, but I can no longer make out who they're coming from, or what they're saying.

When I next wake up, it's dark, and I assume I've been asleep all day. My eyes itch open, and I'm surprised to see the bow and arrow beside me. I reach out to grab ahold of it, when I spot the green, soggy leaves plastered over the stings on my hands. My gut reaction is to shake them off, when a small hand stops me. Flinching, I grab for the dagger at my waist.

"Daisy, it's me, okay, it's me Ace," explains the younger boy next to me. "You're safe."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and lean back against the stump I had been propped up against. As my vision comes back into focus, I see Ace right there, and the little boy from 8. I'm scanning the clearing for the girl from 6, when with a heavy heart, and sickness rising in my chest, I know. That cannon I heard, it was for her.

"We heard the cannon, and the screaming, and being the eldest out of us three, she hopped out of the tree to check. That when those two Careers from District 2 came flying out of the treelike. They had gone mad, and Kara I think her name is, she must have seen the girl as some kind of threat, because she called her all these horrible names, and shot an arrow into her chest," Ace explained, drawing patterns in the mud with his finger. "She died pretty quickly."

I reach out my hand to caress his cheek, and I see that his hands are shaking, and all the blood from his face has gone. It didn't seem fair that somebody so young, so sincere and so innocuous, had to deal with all this bloodshed. Just the fact that every time a cannon goes off, he's supposed to continue on as though it was as conventional as a rooster's crow. Or how everyday he has to say goodbye to a friend, and he's supposed to continue fighting for his life and just forget about those kids dying around him.

"What else happened today?" I asked him, curious and desperate for more information.

To this, Ace furrowed his eyebrows, and looked at me as though I'd said something outrageous. "You've been out for three days."

Stunned, my eyes widened, and I felt as though I'd been punched in the stomach. Though, when I think about it, that would explain numbness I felt in the whole lower part of my body, and the groggy sensation in my head.

"Oh," was all I could say.

I couldn't help the gut-wrenching, guilty feeling I had in the pit of my stomach. Because I just had to throw myself into the Games, and make a stupid mistake, I was unconscious for three whole days, leaving these two young boys to care for themselves, and ultimately, care for me too. They shouldn't have to do that. They're twelve and thirteen, and they had to look after a seventeen year old, unconscious girl, changing and dressing her wounds, and making sure she's okay every second of every minute.

"What's this?" I ask softly, finally, pointing to the swabs of chewed up leaves on my skin.

"Cabbage leaves," Ace answers, almost shyly. "My mother told me that if you chew up the leaves, and put them on the stings, they help draw out the pain."

I pat his hand out of thanks. "That's very clever, ingenious really." Ace smiles, and this brings a smile on my face.

The boy from 8 then says that he's tired, so he makes himself comfy against a rock, and nods off within a matter of seconds. Ace tells me that he was on watch from late in the evening up until I woke up at dawn. Feeling remorseful, I peel off my jacket, and lay it over the boy. I ponder over kissing him on the forehead, as I would do Katya, until eventually I give in. It's too late now to fear getting too attached to him, because I am, and this boy is too young and too kind to not receive a goodnight kiss.

It's a long time until I muster up enough courage to ask Ace who had died whilst I was out. "Grant's not dead," he tells me, as though that was what I was trying to ask. And I guess, that's what I was asking. It's hard to ignore the wave of relief that overcomes me. I can't look Ace in the eyes. "In total the girl from 1, the girl from 3, the boy from 4, . . . the boy from 5, and the girl from 6, both from 7, the girl from 8, both from 9, and both from 10."

I notice that his voice is almost monotonous, as though he's been rehearsing in his head what to say. Also, that he lingers when he talks about our fallen friends, and not once does he mention a name. It must be as painful for him to talk about it, as it is for me to hear about it. In my head I add up twelve gone, and work out that including us three here, and Grant, there's twelve left. Twelve lives wiped completely off the face of the earth in a matter of days. Though I suppose it's for the best. The more of them that die, the less threats there are out there. The less threats for Ace, and the other little one, and less threats for me. More of a chance we can all arrive home.

"I'm sorry," he says, as he proceeds to change my dressings. "For everything."

Glancing at him, I knit my eyebrows together. "For what? You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Just the whole situation. You, leaving your friend behind. Being in here with Grant. It must be hard."

My heart stops when he mentions Grant's name, and I wonder just what he means by that. "Why . . . why would it be hard?"

Ace looks at me with the softest of expressions, and I could just feel the pity emanating off of him. "Because you love him, of course."

I have to stop the laugh from leaving my lips, because I know that the cameras will be catching my every word. If I want to have any chance at making it through this, I'll have to do as May says, and play this angle.

"You . . . you think I love him?" I don't know why, but it's hard for me to keep my voice steady.

"Well, you were saying his name in your sleep," Ace tells me, smiling ever so slightly. "And he came to visit - "

"He was here? He came to see us?" I blurt out, shooting forward.

Ace nods. "Grant brought you to us, when you'd passed out. He said we had to hide you from the Careers because you'd made them very angry. He helped us hide you here, and told us that we had to look after you. He came by a few times over the past couple of days, to check up on us. Sometimes he brings rabbits. He would keep watch when we were too tired, and I'd catch him talking to you in your sleep. He said he was sorry, for betraying you. But he also said that he did it to keep you safe. Because he wants you to make good on your promise."

 _My promise to Katya._ The people in the Capitol must have loved that. Grant is terrific at this whole acting thing, because even I'm starting to believe it could be real. The smile that flashes across my face was completely involuntary. I suppress it immediately, and try and force a stern expression, which I completely fail at making believable. Ace just laughs at me, which makes me laugh too.

"The look on your face, when he said he loved you in that interview," he begins, handing me the now full water bottle - Grant must have refilled this for them too. "It was as though Christmas had come early, and you'd gotten everything on your list."

Giggling a little at his metaphor, I push his shoulder, teasingly. "Shut up," I retort.

"He should be coming by in the next hour," Ace informs me. "He promised us he'd bring more cabbage leaves for your stings, though they've probably all healed up enough."

I nod, though internally I'm screaming. The prospect of seeing Grant was enthralling. I have to remind myself it's an act, and that there's noway I could ever have any feelings for him. Only one of us will make it through this alive. Only one.

"Good," I answer. "I could do with some rabbit."


	19. No More Coffins

An hour comes and goes, and I find myself start to panic.

All the rabbit had been eaten, because we assumed we would be getting some more, and now I can hear Ace's stomach start to grumble. I tease him about it, poking him in the ribs, and that's when I realise that's all he his. Ribs. He's so skinny, that no wonder a few bites of rabbit will satisfy him. He needs a whole rabbit inside him. He lies though, and tells me he's fine.

"I'm just lucky to have something fresh to eat," he confesses. "Back home it's stale bread, or nothing."

"Just listening to you, is like listening to my friend Katya. She's about your age," I tell Ace, smiling bittersweetly. "She would tell me that everything at school is fine, and that girl's aren't picking on her. She has to wear my old dresses, you see, because we don't get many new things. And my old dresses are dresses handed down to me by the older girls who'd left the orphanage. And because she's so slight, so tiny, she wearing dresses I wore when I was six, seven. So some are a good . . . fourteen years old? Fifteen? The other girls, mainly just the ones from town, who could afford nice, new things, would tease her about it. They'd pull at the bows, or rip the moth-eaten fabric. Katya would come home, tears in her eyes and mud on her knees, her dresses sometimes ruined beyond repair. I could see what they'd done, but she would still lie and tell me she was okay. That she 'tripped'. She didn't want the girls at school to get into trouble, even though they were being so nasty to her. You remind me so much of her. You're both such compassionate, and benevolent people. Do you know what that means?"

He shakes his head.

"It means you're kind, and gracious. You worry about other people, and put their needs before yours, without a second thought about what that means to your happiness."

Ace leans into my arm, and snuggles up to me. Into my shoulder, comes his muffled voice; "You remind me of my mother."

I don't wipe the tears from my cheek, and instead I hold Ace tighter, apologising over and over. I wonder how hard this must be for his mother to watch, back home. I wonder if she hates me for replacing her, or is grateful Ace has somebody watching over him. I truly hope it's the latter.

Unsure of how long we remain like this, I don't move, and even allow the boy from 8 to join us when he wakes up. It's only when the cannon fires around midday, that any of us stir. I shoot up, grabbing the bow and drawing an arrow, though I don't know who I'm aiming for. There's nobody around. Straining my ear and lowering my bow, I can hear the sound of the hovercraft coming to pick up the body of the fallen tribute, and it's far, far away. Perhaps even on the opposite side of the arena. It's with some relief that I'm glad that it's nowhere near, but then the fact that it could have been Grant, dawns on me. My worry must have registered on my face, because Ace reaches out and places a tiny hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry, Grant said he was camped out down by the river when he's not here," he informs me, in a gentle voice. "And the rivers in the opposite direction of where that hovercraft was. He'll be okay."

That doesn't make sense to me. Why would Grant camp so far away, only to come here three, four times a day, to help out the two little ones? Why didn't he just stay here, with them?

"So why didn't he show?" I sigh, then immediately regret my words, when I see this question start to play on the boy's minds. "No, you're right, he'll be okay. That's the first cannon today, he's probably just caught up, fighting some squirrel somewhere."

At this Ace giggles, and I ruffle his hair. I then decide that I can't put off our hunger any longer, and tell them I'm just going to fetch some game for lunch. They're reluctant to let me go, but when I tell them that I'll stay within a couple a hundred metres within our camp, they agree.

Despite my promise to the boys, I like the idea of all this space, and wildlife, thriving around me. It makes me feel as though I were back in District 12, back in my element. There's no looming threat of an attack at any moment, as it's so quiet, so peaceful. I can even hear the mockingjays above me, singing little songs between themselves. Grinning, I whistle a small tune, and they repeat it with ease. Soon the whole of the skyline is filled with the sound of my tune, and I laugh. It's refreshing, to be outside. To be among nature. It's only been about . . . ten days since I was last in District 12, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Being here now, in the the forest, surrounded by green and the sound of birds flying high above me, I feel at ease. As though I were home. I even turn to look behind me, as though to grin at Lincoln, when I remember that I wasn't home. Instead I was in an arena. Fighting for survival. Battling hunger and assailants alike.

This spurs me on to find some food. Feeling content with holding a bow at long last, I breathe in the fresh air, and draw an arrow back. Scanning the forest, I spot a pheasant, strolling around by a a cluster of thorn bushes. As though it were second nature, which to be honest, it was, I fire an arrow straight through it's eye. Happy with my kill, and so quick as well, I begin my descent back to our little headquarters, when I come across a hilltop. Entranced by the view, I have to stop and stare, if only for a matter of seconds.

Though I doubt how much of it is real, the scenery is magnificent. The sight of the towering mountains, and the glistening lakes and it's shimmering streams, was breathtaking. I genuinely was at a loss for words. Until I saw a billow of smoke, rising up from down by the lake itself.

Mentally cursing whomever it was, for making their position so obvious, I silently willed for them to put it out. I pleaded and pleaded, and stood there on that hilltop, the pheasant and bows strung over my shoulder, and my bow in my hands, when I realised my attempts were futile. And as I realised this, the cannon went off. They'd been caught. No doubt by Quinn, Kara and Gordon, who'd all had enough time to heal as I had.

Gritting my teeth, the faces of the girl from 9, the boy from 5, and the girl from 6 flash in front of my eyes, and my grip on my bow tightens. I know that I'll have to kill them, or live with the fact that I sat back and did nothing. I hate the thought of murdering somebody, but when I remember how easy it had been for Kara to throw that knife at the little girl, I find that I would actually relish in the idea of her going the same way.

I stand for a long time on the hilltop, planning and envisioning how I'm going to take out the Careers, when I spot a group of figures around the Cornucopia. Straining really hard, I manage to make out five people, three of which I'm positive are the Careers. The other two must have been the tributes they'd roped in to do their dirty work. Guard the mountain of gifts, whilst they go out and hunt. How stupid they must be, those two tributes, for believing they were safer with the Careers, than out there being murdered by them. Stupid, or scared. I knew it wasn't fair of me to call them stupid, because all around Panem, I'm probably getting labelled something similar, for choosing to form an alliance with the youngest and smallest of the tributes. They were only doing what they thought best. They've lasted an extra four days, to be fair.

It must be because of the never-ending abundance of supplies they're guarding. They'd dragged everything out of the Cornucopia, emptying the entire thing, and making one huge pile. They don't have to worry about going hungry, or getting sick, or going unarmed. Whilst the rest of us have to actively pursue food, and trek miles and miles for a sip of water, they simply have to take three strides, and they can have their pick of treats.

Suddenly, an idea strikes me. If we could get to the Cornucopia tomorrow, whilst the Careers are out hunting, we could find a way to destroy their mass of gifts, rendering them destitute. It's perfect.

I run back to our make-shift camp, to tell them about my idea, when a cannon strikes. Knowing I'd left them too long, I sprint the rest of the way, screaming out their names.

"Daisy? Daisy!" shrieks Ace's voice, just as desperate as mine. I finally arrive back, and I spot a the body on the floor. It's the little one from District 8. His skin has turned a sickly, pale colour, that makes him almost translucent. A lavender liquid seems to ooze out of the corner of his small mouth, his lips drained of all colour. In his hands I saw the berries, and immediately recognised them. Nightlock berries. Lethal, they paralyse you within seconds, and kill you just as quick.

I knock the berries out of Ace's hands when I reach him, then hold him close to my body, stroking his head comfortingly. He was trembling and sobbing. Somehow, he'd got it into his head that it was his fault the boy was dead.

"I pointed them out . . . I said they were safe to eat," he stutters. His face is as pale as the other boy's, and his tears just won't stop. "I told him we have berries like that back home. That I eat them all the time. I thought they were juneberries."

"It's okay, Ace, it's okay," I say, as I bend down, wiping the tears from his face. "It's not your fault, please don't think so."

"But it is my fault!" he sobs. "I picked them. I told him they were safe to eat."

Clapping Ace's little hands in my own, I get him to look me in the eyes. "It's not your fault, I promise you. I should have been here. I should have been watching over you. Now it's my fault he's dead, not you. You aren't to take the blame for this. I won't let you," I say, emphatically. "Now we're going to have to go, because a hovercraft will be here any second to take this little boy home. You need to come with me, so we can settle down for the night. You're going to have keep up, okay? Do you think you can do that?"

He nods, and I kiss his forehead. I approach the boy, and with a jolt I see his eyes are wide open. His emerald orbs look dull, and resemble the moss he's laying in. I kneel down, and close his eyes gently, my tears falling onto his t-shirt.

"Farewell," I whisper. "Tomorrow will be kinder." And just as I had done with the boy from 5, I collect a handful of flowers, this time soft, fuchsia foxgloves, and surround his tiny body with them.

Returning to Ace, I gather up our things, and take his hand. We run as fast as we can through the woods, though it's hard to see where we're going, because the sky's started to fall dark. Ace trips once or twice, and I make sure he's not injured before we continue. Finally, we find a slim tree that's concealed by the rest of the trees around us, and we climb up. The air is now arctic, and my fingertips become numb. Ace's teeth are chattering so loud, and he's shivering so much I can feel the vibrations in the branch. I pull out the sleeping bag, and we burrow inside together, clinging to one another for body warmth. Within minutes, Ace has drifted off. I have a much more difficult time however.

My eyelids, which begin to feel more like paperweights, are prized open when I hear heavy footsteps, and gruff voices below me. If I could only reach my bow and arrow without waking Ace . . .

"I swear to God, when I find that bitch - " began one voice, female, until she was cut off by one of her companions.

"You're going to what, Kara? Waste more arrows missing her?" spat one of the males, who I now knew to be Gordon. "Please, don't embarrass yourself."

"What Gordon's trying to say is that she's smarter than we give her credit for," sighs who I can only assume to be Quinn. He sounds exasperated, and weary. Perhaps Kara and Gordon have been arguing like this for the past three days. I can't say I feel sorry for Quinn. "She has Lover Boy wrapped around her finger."

At the mention of Grant, Kara groans in obvious disgust. "Don't get me started on _him_. I still can't believe that the whole time he was running around with us, helping us find those quivering tributes, he was slipping away to go see her and her brats."

 _So that's why he didn't stay with us,_ I realise with a jolt. _But that would mean he wasn't camping out at the lake. Could that cannon have been for him earlier?_

"He's probably with her now, laughing at our foolishness," Gordon adds, spitefully.

Thank God, he's still alive. Closing my eyes, I lean back against the tree, and smile. As the Careers slump away, still mumbling and groaning about how I'd outsmarted them, when really I've done nothing but sleep for the past few days, I fall asleep, with ease.

Or at least, until the anthem begins to play. This wakes up Ace, who looks up to the sky as I do. The faces of the boy from 6, which explains who the cannon that had fired earlier was for, and the boy from 8 are displayed across the screen. I mourn the loss of the little boy, as I work out in my head who was left. Gordon, Quinn, Kara, Donnie, the boy who had wished me luck in the lift after the interviews, the girl from 4, the red-haired girl from 5, Ace's fellow District 6 tribute, Raina, then me, Ace and Grant. Ten.

Ten out of a possible twenty-four. Fourteen tributes dead in four days. How long will it take for the rest of us to go? In past Games, it's taken weeks. Other times, it's been a matter of days.

All this thinking about dead tributes, and how many of the living there are left, forces me to realise that only one of us will win. That means it's me, or Ace. I don't want Katya growing up alone in the orphanage, but I don't want Ace to die. I know that Lincoln will look out for her. And whilst I'm in here, I have to look out for Ace. I owe that to him. He saved my life, and I have yet to prove myself worthy of his kindness. To prove myself worthy of the affection I received from any of the little ones, who have all died to get me here. I think about their parents, and how their children are coming home in a coffin.

I wouldn't let Ace go home in a coffin. He was going to go home a hero. _A victor._


	20. Indescribable

**A.N: I know that this is short, but it's 1:24am, and I know that I won't be able to post anything else for a while, so I just hope that this is okay. Please keep reviewing, your feedback means the world to me. Truly. Thank you all so much, and thanks for reading!**

The next morning I told Ace my plan for dealing with the Careers, and though I could see that he was struggling to come to terms with being the last of the little one left, he managed to put on a brave face, and smile.

"So what do I do again?" he asks, nibbling on one of the dried beef strips I'm surprised had survived so long without being eaten. Five days in, and my food supplies remained intact. With a sharp pang, I realise that I had specifically told them not to open them without me. Seeing as though I'd either been out hunting, hiding, or unconscious for most of my time in the arena, they were unsure of whether they could in fact open it without me.

I've also been out hunting, hiding or unconscious every single time one of the little ones has died. Some guardian I am.

"I want you as far from the Cornucopia as you could possibly be," I tell him, letting him have one more beef strip before I rolled up the packet and tucked them away for later use. "Starting three separate fires. Your job is to confuse the Careers. They'll spot one fire, think they have caught a tribute, and run off to investigate. You'll run as fast as you can immediately, starting another, a few miles away. Then, when that one is lit, you'll need to start another. By that time I'll have figured out how to get rid of all the food, and we'll both meet up far away from the fallout of the chaos. We'll be safe, and they'll go hungry. You think you're up for the challenge?"

He nods eagerly, so I smile and ruffle his curly, dark hair.

"How are you going to get rid of everything though?"

Furrowing my eyebrows, I realise I haven't given that part of the plan much thought. "Burn it. Dump it in the lake. Soak it in fuel," I list, thinking out loud. Then, teasingly I poke Ace in the ribs just as I would do Katya. "Eat it!" He giggles. "Don't worry too much about it, I'll have everything sorted out tomorrow when I get down there."

But it was a lot more trickier, destroying things with nothing in your possession to help you. That night, as me and Ace tucked down after an eventless day, and listened to the anthem, but saw no faces in the sky, I pondered over just how I intended to eradicate the Careers's bounty. I had matches yes, but it was whether they had any fuel. And to transport all of the goods down to the lake, without attracting the attention of the guard, in under roughly fifteen minutes was a near impossible feat. I couldn't do it. I just hoped a better idea would strike me before it was too late, because not only was I risking my life, but Ace's too.

That morning I had awoke especially early, unable to ignore the jitters in my stomach any more. Ace was full of energy, oddly enough, and awoke a couple of hours after I did, with a big grin on his face. As he lead the way towards the little stream, I could hear him going over the plan with himself, making obscene hand gestures, and scolding himself for getting it wrong. I smiled warmly at him, and sat down on a rock. He told me he had spotted some fish, and asked if he could borrow one of my arrows to try and catch one. Carefully I handed one to him, and continued to watch him, blissfully. Rolling his trouser legs up, and discarding his socks and shoes to one side, he didn't seem to mind the cold. Though he wasn't especially good at fishing, he was extremely determined, and wouldn't give up until he had caught something, anything.

I laughed, then felt awful about laughing, as one fish jumped so high, startling him so much he fell backwards into the water. He laughed too though, and kicked the water out at me teasingly. I raised my bow, jokingly, and so he chuckled, backing off, and continuing his conquest. It was then that I realised, when the time came, I would never actually be able to draw the bow, if Ace was my target. When, and it must be a when for I can't possibly imagine an if, it comes down to me and him, I'll have to convince him to drive an arrow through my heart. I know the thought has probably not even crossed his mind yet, and this is why he must be the one to escape the Games, unscathed. I can't survive, knowing it was me or him. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, he reminds me too much of Katya, and to kill him, would be like driving the dagger through her. I wouldn't be a victor, I'd be a murderer.

I'm shaken out of my stupor when at long last, Ace rushes up to me, thrusting his hands out under my nose. He appeared to be clutching a wriggling and squirming silvery fish, with a dusting of black spots, and a brush of pink horizontally across it's centre. "Look, Daisy, look!" he calls, ecstatically. I don't care about how loud he his, because I'm so in awe of his catch. "It's a fish!"

"That's a trout!" I tell him, astounded. "You caught a trout!"

I kissed him on the forehead, and on both cheeks, and on the nose, until he was giggling, and the fish was turning over in his hands, desperate to jump back in to the freshwater. I instruct that he finds the hottest and flattest stone to cook the fish on, whilst I walk back and forth between the bank and the woods, trying to find something to accompany the fish for lunch. Fortunately I find a handful of these starchy roots, that when cooked taste like parsnips.

Our fish was fresh, and flavourful, our roots sweet and filling. We wash everything down with a couple of mouthfuls of water from the stream. I make sure that our meal is good, and wholesome. It actually hurt me to watch Ace go hungry, and this was when I understood why mother's make the meal before the reaping so special.

The walk back up the bank was filled with chatter, and laughs, and stories. With my belly full, and the midday sun beating down on the pair of us, I've come over quite lethargic. I almost want to scrap my plan, and find a tree to hide out in, when I realise me and Ace have already spent enough time playing happy families. The Capitol will be growing tired, especially seeing as there were no deaths yesterday, and there haven't been any today. If I decide to sit around with Ace, and not go after those Careers, then the Gamemakers will just have to find a way to drive us together. At least this way we'll have the upper hand.

To ensure that Ace is safe, and also because I want to spend a little more time with him, I accompany and assist him whilst he sets up each of the bonfires. I come to know him, the eldest of six kids, fiercely protective over his siblings, would give his rations to them in a heartbeat, who makes up stories to tell his little brothers and sisters to help them sleep at night. Ace, who when asked what his favourite thing in the world is, above all else, replies with; "Love."

I stare at him for a while, and he looks afraid, like he's said the wrong thing. Then the beam breaks out onto my face, and he calms. "Why love?"

"Why not love?" he answers, shrugging. "It's love that drives us to become better people, to do nice things for others. For example, if I didn't love my family, I wouldn't have put myself forward for that extra tesserae, meaning they'd have much less food this year. Or, if you didn't love Katya, you wouldn't have volunteered for her, and she would be in here instead of you. Or, if Grant didn't love you, he would have let the Careers kill you, or the tracker jackers drive you insane."

It's beautiful, what he's saying, yet for some reason my breath hitches when he mentions the words _Grant, love,_ and _you_ all in the same sentence. I know that my shock is evident on my face, and I try my best to hide it, when I remember the cameras, and know that they've probably been waiting for something like this to crop up. I can almost hear May, hissing in my ear, begging me to give her something to work with. _"Make me believe in you! Make me believe that you could love that boy! Make me want to keep you alive!"_

"Have you ever been in love?" I ask Ace, and the immediate blush on my face informs me that he has, or currently is. I decide the latter. "What's her name?"

Ace seems to mill the idea of telling me, and ultimately the whole of Panem, who this girl is. "Amber," he finally says, shyly. "She sits next to me at school, and she has these two bows in her plaits, and they're always purple. She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen. I don't think she knows who I am though. She always calls me Jake, and gives me the broken pencil to write with."

Feeling my heart swell up at his words, I resist the urge to pull him into a hug and never let go. "You know what, I bet she knows exactly who you are," I tell him, knowingly. "We girls, we don't like to make the first move. If we like a boy, we don't want to show him. Instead, we'll get his attention another way, like calling him names on purpose, or giving him broken things. That way, he has an excuse to talk to us."

Ace thinks about this, and then flushes scarlet. Bashfully he shakes his head, and busies himself with the final bonfire. Then, after a while, he turns to me, an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. "What's love like when you're older?"

I wonder what kind of love he's talking about, whether he means the love between me and Katya, or the pretend love between me and Grant. And when I try and describe what me and Grant should have, I find myself thinking about Lincoln, for the first time in ages. It's raw to think about love, and it hurts. It's also dizzying, when I'm thinking about love, and I have both Grant and Lincoln's faces in my mind, when before then, I didn't know I loved anyone other than Katya. I put it down to the fact I'm pretending to be in love with Grant, and I love Lincoln as a brother.

"When I was little, one of the carers at the orphanage, called Mother Margaret, used to tell me things, things about when she was a young woman. She was in love, though for some reason it never worked out. She wouldn't tell me why, only giving a word of advice. She said; _"You'll never get your heart broken, if you can tell the difference between these three things; Fondness, which is an affection or liking for someone. Devotion, the selfless affection and dedication to a person. And Love, which is indescribable."_ I think there are few words that have ever been truer."

"And is that what you and Grant have, indescribable?"

I nod. Because what else can you call a pretend act of infatuation between two people, forced to fight each other in a barbaric and savage form of entertainment, in an attempt to save at least one of them?

Whilst we're stalling for time, adding another layer of leaves to the bonfire, he asks another question. A question I was too afraid to think.

"What happens if one of us is caught?" he inquires, in a small voice. I'm glad he says caught, and not killed, because I don't quite know if I'm strong enough to be able to answer that question.

"If one of us get caught," I begin, unable to meet his eyes, instead choosing to fiddle around with the eagle pin on my shirt. "Then we'll have to figure out a way to signal this to the other, so they know." How though, I'm not sure. Ace, however, knows just the thing.

He raises his head up to the sky, and whistles a small, melodious tune that consists of four notes. Instantaneously, the mockingjays above us copy the sound, echoing the song around the arena. Ace smiles, and looks at me. "It's something we whistle to one another back in District 11. It's how everyone know that the shift is over."

By shift he is referring to the compulsory work in the orchard, and on the fields, he and the rest of District 11 are forced into doing in return for meagre portions of grain.

I try the whistle too, and once again the mockingjays happily sing the song back. I smile, and look around me, watching the birds gather, and fly around.

"Okay then, if everything goes according to plan, I'll see you back at the stream for dinner?" I finally say, with my best attempt at sounding hopeful. I had to be hopeful, for if I couldn't have hope in here, then there wasn't a chance I could get either of us out alive.

Unexpectedly, Ace throws his arms around me, in a longing embrace, and I could hear him sniffling. I don't even hesitate in reciprocating the hug.

"You be careful," he tells me. "And I'll see you in time for dinner."

"You too," I reply, beginning my trek down to the Cornucopia, though not tearing my eyes away from him for a second. "I'm looking for ward to it. You better catch another trout!"

He smiles, and starts to run off. I stand frozen for a while, watching his retreating figure, until he's disappeared through the shrubbery and the trees. I can't help but feel a gut-wrenching sensation, as though I was sending a lamb to the slaughter. Shaking my head, I pushed on.

I arrived at the Cornucopia, and hid in the long grass, until the scent of ash and the dark, billowing clouds looming over the treetops informed me that Ace had started his first fire. I watched with satisfaction as the Careers, jumping at the sight of a potential victim, roared with glee, and immediately set off, leaving the boy from 3, who's name was Donnie Gill, in charge of watching over the supplies. I noticed that his grip on his spear was shaky, and he flinched at the sound of every twig snap or owl hoot. I could let my arrow fly now, and take him out, but how does that take care of the supplies? Sighing, I'm torn with what to do, when a figure darting out from behind the Cornucopia startles me.

It's the red-haired girl from 5, and for a second I wait for Donnie to attack, when I suspect that he hasn't seen or heard her. She's light-footed, and fast, and for a moment she's just a blur. Then she reaches the mountain of gifts, and instead of running straight to it, as I would have done, she stops, seemingly calculating something. What?

And that's when I realise. The mines from the beginning of the Games, the ones that prevent us from leaving our podiums too soon, well they've been planted around the supplies. That's why they've kept Donnie alive, being from District 3, the district who's sole purpose is technology, he would have known how to reactivate them, and turn them into a kind of booby trap. It's smart, I'll give him that, and I bet he bowled over the Gamemakers with his ingenious thinking.

However for me, it simply presents another obstacle. Quite literally. I watch as the girl does this funny dance where she hops from one foot to the other, extremely cautious of where she stands. Then when she reaches the gifts, she takes only a few items, not enough so that it causes a dent in the pile, but enough for her to maybe live off of. It's sneaky, and it's conniving, and I'm in awe for a while. Then I notice the second bonfire starting to burn, and I have to think fast. There's no way I could complete the same pattern she did to get to the supplies, and even then what do I do? I can't expect to carry crates after crates, whilst doing that dance over and over. No, there has to be a better way.

And there is. I spot the bag of apples, dangling dangerously close to the floor. They just needed a push. Drawing my bow, I dared to come out a little of my hiding place to ensure that I get a good shot, and close an eye. Breathing in, I know that I only really have one shot until Donnie notices me. My sights set solely on the flimsy bag, and with a steady hand, I let the arrow fly. The arrow skims the netting, and I hold my breath. I fear that it wasn't enough, and I can hear Donnie approaching me, calling out.

Suddenly, the apples spill onto the ground, and I'm thrown backwards into the air.


	21. Rules & Regulations

The force of the blast was paramount. My bones felt as though they had all broken, as my body is thrown backwards into a tree. I lay here for a while, in a crumpled heap amongst the debris of the explosion. Even after the initial impact, mines are still going off, as each eruption ignites a chain reaction with the others. My vision has gone hazy, and for a while everything is pitch black, and all I can hear is my heart pumping furiously in my chest.

Rolling onto my side, hair flopping into my eyes, I spotted Donnie's mangled body, or parts of it, dotted around the Cornucopia. I scrambled to my feet immediately, with great difficulty, and threw up in a bush, steadying myself against the tree for support. As I wiped my mouth clean, I stumbled off into the woods, expecting that the Careers would soon be after me. As I did so, I couldn't help but notice my balance was completely off, and I was deafened by a ringing in my ear.

 _Ear._ Singular. For with a jolt I realise my hearing had gone in one ear, my right ear. The ear I relied heavily on to sense prey before my eyes did. The ear I used to listen out for Katya stirring in the night. The ear I used to tune myself when I sing lullabies. The ear now completely and utterly useless.

I had to resist shedding a tear, because not only had I lost something very crucial to me, I was in immense pain. The cut on my arm, which I thought had healed, had split open again, now bleeding profusely. Other wounds had appeared on my body, though I feared they could be internal. Broken bones, bruised ribs - on top of my broken ribs which hadn't pained me once since the reaping - all throbbed and ached, making each step torturous. Blood was pouring down my neck, and out of my ear, dripping onto my shoulder. My jacket was in tatters, as were my trouser. Great big, gaping holes had formed in the beige material were my knees were, and the flesh underneath looked as though it had been torn to shreds.

Stopping to catch my breath, clutching on to my bow and arrow, as if ensuring it was still by my side, I looked around to check if I was being followed. Fortunately, I saw no signs of the Careers. But then, that must mean they're chasing somebody else.

Ace.

The ear-splitting screams that followed only confirmed my worst fear. I tore off towards the direction of his cries, without a second thought to my injuries. Though it hurt tremendously, I persevered through the pain, determined to find Ace. Visions of a blade slicing through his skull, of a spear striking his heart coursed through my mind, only causing my legs to work faster.

I came across the last bonfire, which was unscathed. Either he hadn't reached it to light it yet, or somebody had got to him first. Gritting my teeth I drew an arrow, and searched the area. I thought I spotted his tiny frame darting through two trees, when at a second glance I noticed that it was just a lone deer, startled by my heavy treading. That was another disadvantage brought on by my loss of hearing; I had no awareness, no comprehension of how loud I was walking. This would prove to be a huge blow if I pursued hunting again later on, knowing that I'd only ever be able to catch the slow or the weak, everything else escaping my grasp.

"Ace!" I call out, my voice hoarse and croaky. "Ace! Ace! Ace!"

I keep on screaming his name, until to speak felt like rubbing sandpaper on my voice box. I wasn't going to give up, though. I refuse to give him up.

"Daisy!" shrieks a child's voice, snapping my attention immediately. It's Ace, I'm positive. "Daisy, help! Please help me!"

"I'm coming! I promise, I'm coming!" I answer, sprinting towards the direction of his pleads. I come to a clearing, and spot Ace tangled inside a mesh net, struggling to break free. Relieved that there was nobody around, or at least near Ace, I run to his aid, and cut the net with my dagger. He throws it off him, and launches into my arms. He kisses my cheek, and I can feel him trembling with fear. I rub circles on his back, to comfort him, not wanting to let him go.

"You came back for me," he whispers into my good ear. "I knew you would come back."

"Of course I came back," I tell him, softly. "There's no way I'd leave you. Not for anyone or anything."

He smiles into my shoulder, and I allow myself to close my eyes for just a second. It was a second too long. I hear Ace suddenly gasp, and my eyes shoot open. Suddenly, I'm looking down at his back, where I see a spear protruding out of his flesh. Pulling away, I saw the tip of the spear just graze my stomach, barely scratching me. Ace must have slowed the impact. With his body.

Ace steps back from me, and slowly pulls the spear out, soaking his hands and his clothes with his blood. He collapses backwards, but I catch him before he lands on the ground. Setting him down softly, I don't hesitate in pulling out my bow and arrow, and aiming for the intruder in front of us. It's Gordon. Disgusting me, I see that he's grinning. I waste no time in letting an arrow fly, and strike him straight between the eyes. He's still smiling maniacally as he falls to the floor with a _thud,_ and the cannon fires.

Tears spilling out of my eyes, my hands shaking so profusely the bow just drops out of my grip, I turn to Ace, who's rasping for air. I kneel down, and rest his head in my lap. Now I'm sobbing, his hazel orbs focused solely on me. I'm holding onto him, willing him to get better. I'm begging, and pleading, to which he just smiles gently up at me.

"I'm dying, aren't I?"

I can't find any words to answer him. Instead I shake my head, refusing to accept the situation. I'm still shaking my head when he slowly reaches out and touches my face. I don't even care his hands are soaked in blood.

"You can't save me, Daisy," he says, he's voice growing quieter and quieter. "You can't save everyone."

My sobs are loud, and harrowing, and I don't care if Quinn finds me. He can't hurt me any more. My life is draining out alongside Ace's, and when he dies, I will too, and I'll be past caring what happens to my empty shell.

"I don't want you to feel as though this is your fault," he continues, as I lean into his touch. His soft, cold touch. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have stepped in front of the spear," I answer, through a strangled cry. I make no effort in wiping my tears away.

Ace shakes his head, and closes his eyes. I worry that I've lost him, and I press my forehead against his, calling him softly back to me. His eyes flutter open, though I notice sharply that they're not as bright as they were. "Stay with me," I mutter, and he manages a small smile. I couldn't begin to imagine the kind of pain he was in, what a spear cutting through your flesh would feel like.

"I'm trying," he replied. "Please, can you sing to me?"

I sit up immediately, nodding to Ace. I keep his head on my lap, and I stroke his hair as I begin to sing the lullaby I sing to help Katya drift off at night.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

 _A bed or grass, a soft green pillow_

 _Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

 _And when again they open, the sun will rise._

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_

 _Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

 _Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true_

 _Here is the place where I love you._

There's a line that I specifically stress, in the lullaby. _Here the daisies guard you from harm._ I'm Daisy, and I'm holding him close to me, keeping him safe.

 _Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

 _A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

 _Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

 _And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_

 _Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

Ace manages one last smile, as his eyes slip from me and up to the skyline, where a cluster of mockingjays have gathered to listen. For once, they're not repeating the tune, just watching intently. The quiet is deafening. It's almost spectral, the presence of these animals, and the eerie silence. It's as though the whole forest is mourning.

 _Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true_

 _Here is the place where I love you._

As I whisper the last words, his eyes close, and I know that they're never to open again. A cannon fires somewhere from above us. Or, above me. Now that he's dead, and my lullaby is finished, I'm free to weep, and scream, and lash out all the feelings I had to suppress. I clutch Ace close to me, rocking back and forth, as though by some miracle he was going wake up. Of course he doesn't, and I was delusional to think so. I lay him down in the grass, gently, and get up. I pace back and forth, pounding my head with balled up fists, screaming. Ace was dead. I had failed to look after him, after any of them. Five of them entered the Games, and I'd just watched as the last one died in my arms.

It's all my fault, I don't care what Ace told me. It's entirely my fault that they're all dead. It's my fault I didn't hear, or see Gordon coming. It's my fault I hadn't take him out sooner. It's my fault I'd let Ace go off by himself. It's all my fault.

All cameras must have been on me, must have been filming his death. I know that the camera has surely been following me around for the past hour, with the death of Donnie, the explosion, and the now death of Ace.

I curl up beside Ace, my nails clawing at my face. I'm talking to myself, telling myself to stay with him, like I promised. However, the Careers must be coming after me now, and the hovercraft too. Ace's mother and father back home shouldn't have to see their son like this, bleeding out and sprawled out on the net. Pulling myself together, I drag the net out from under his limp body, carefully. Then, as I had done with the boy from 5 and the boy from 8, I gathered a handful of the closest flowers, this time they were, ironically, daisies. The Gamemakers must have thought they were really clever planting them. I surround Ace's body with them, and place another bunch in his small hands, to hide the blood and the gaping hole in his chest. I sit by his side for a few more minutes, in bitter silence. Then, I kiss his forehead, holding my lips against his forehead for a few seconds.

"Farewell," I tell him, gently. "Tomorrow will be kinder."

I hope for his sake that it will be. I never knew what that was supposed to mean, the customary saying families and friends say to their loved ones at a funeral back in District 12. Before, I didn't understand how their tomorrow could be anything, seeing as though they were dead. However, after watching friend after friend die in here, I've come to recognise the meaning. Their today was full of pain. Their tomorrow, will be much kinder because they'll never have to die again.

Breathing deeply, I pick up my bow, and retrieve my arrow from Gordon's body, which has now bled out. I look down at him for a while, and realise that I couldn't possibly wish him a better tomorrow, because he took Ace's tomorrow. I don't even regret killing him, just the fact that I didn't do it sooner.

"You deserved that arrow, not because you murdered an innocent twelve year old," I mutter to his lifeless figure, spitefully. "Or because you hunted me relentlessly for days. It's because you enjoyed killing. That is unforgivable, and inexcusable, and honestly, my arrow was perhaps the most dignified way a bastard like you could have gone."

With my final words to him, I walk away from his body, and Ace's, but not before turning to the camera I had spotted in a tree, and raising three fingers into the air. Tears still streamed down my face, but I made sure that my expression was unwavering, determined even. I wasn't going to give the Capitol the satisfaction of watching me give up. I was going to fight to stay alive, so that the little ones' bravery will not go forgotten, as it is every single year.

There were going to live on with me.

Knowing they'll definitely want to take the bodies away, I begin to run in the direction of the stream. I find running, though my muscles ache and cry out for a hot bath, calming. I don't stop until my feet are standing in the water, and the evening breeze in blowing through my hair. I set myself down on a rock, and bring out the ointment from my pocket. I proceed to lather the cream on my arm, onto my cheek, and everywhere else I had been cut. This meant that I had to strip down to just my underwear. There's twenty plus wounds scattering across my body, and I know that this will just add to the amount of scars I already possessed. Battle wounds.

Then, as the sun goes down behind the mountain, I dig into my bag and find the crackers, still untouched. I limit myself to three, but allow myself to drink all the water I can until I feel bloated. I'm settling down in the sleeping bag, which is considerably colder without somebody else to share it with, when the anthem begins to play. I watch as Ace and Gordon and Donnie are projected across the sky, and I know that I single-handedly caused all of their deaths.

I drift off, and have a turbulent sleep, as I wake every couple of hours to check on Ace. Every time it feels like a slap in the face when I remember why he's not here, beside me. Instead, I decide that it would be a better idea to stay awake, and keep my mind occupied. I'm cleaning my arrows when an announcement snaps my attention.

"Attention tributes, attention. The regulations requiring a single victor have been suspended. From now on, two victors may be crowned if both tributes originate from the same district. Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

Only one word manages to escape my lips.

" _Grant."_


	22. Where Are You?

I sat on that rock for no longer than three seconds after the announcement. I couldn't hold back the urge I immediately felt to go and search for Grant. Gathering up all of my things, I tore off down the bank, without hesitation.

Flinching a couple of times, I'm incredibly wary about the two remaining Careers, Kara and Quinn. Surely they must be after me, after me and Ace destroyed their supplies. They'll have to forage for food, and hunt, and I seriously doubt that either roof them have ever hunted before. People, most certainly. Rabbits and squirrel however, less likely. Then again, I've never killed a single person before the Games, and just yesterday I was responsible for the death of three tributes. Swings and roundabouts really.

I stopped once to refill my bottle, but other than that, I spent the whole morning, which was a good four hours, scouring the river bank for any signs of Grant. I'm going to assume that he is still camped out beside the stream, as he had told the little ones. It would make sense if he was, staying by the river I mean, because there was plenty of food, water, shade and cover to keep him alive.

To keep me occupied, on my hands I count how many of us are left. _One finger,_ me, _two fingers,_ Grant, _three fingers,_ Quinn, _four fingers,_ Kara, _five fingers,_ Raina, _six fingers,_ the redhead from 5, _seven fingers,_ and finally the girl from 4. I had to stop myself before I added Ace to that list.

It was whilst I was counting the survivors, when I realised that no other pairs had remained alive. Me and Grant were the only two from the same district, meaning both of us could go through unscathed. We could actually win this.

There was just the matter of the other five tributes, who were all problematically alive, and breathing.

I started to feel slightly better, and allowed myself to think about Katya for the first time in eleven days. Eleven days since I was last home, surrounded by my loved ones, by my _family._ Give it a couple more, and I could have the rest of my life to spend with them. I had to persevere.

Suddenly, when after what felt like a brief few seconds of serenity, a cannon echoes around the arena. It's as though an alarm has gone off in my brain, and I no longer care if I'm loud, or in plain sight. I'm tearing down the bank, screaming Grant's name. My heart bounding and my blood rushing, I kept repeating _please don't be dead, please don't be dead_ in my mind, as though that was what's going to keep him alive.

Cameras would most certainly be focused on me right now, whether it's because they know he'd dead and pity me, or if it's because they're curious to see if I find him. I don't want to appear vulnerable, as though I'm relying on Grant to be alive, but then I kind of am. I don't know why - I assume it's because of all the kind things his mother did for me - but I feel as though it's my responsibility to keep him alive, and to get him home safely. Letting him return in a wooden coffin does not count as 'safely.'

"Grant! Grant, where are you?" I yell, my voice growing hoarse. "Grant, please!"

"Daisy?"

I could not be more shocked when I hear a faint voice call out to me, disbelief dripping off the word. I freeze, and look around me.

"Grant? Grant is that you?"

The short silence afterwards is agonising, and I fear that I imagined it. Then suddenly, I hear it again.

"Daisy! It's me," he answers, and I release a gasp I didn't know I was holding in. "I'm in the cave to your left!"

Instantly I turn to my left, and though it's incredibly secluded, I spot a gap in a hanging of vines. If I hadn't heard the voice emit out of it, I would never have known it was there. I brush the creepers aside, careful to cover the entrance back up again, and peer inside. Light spill in from little holes in the ceiling, and after my eyes adjust, I spot Grant huddled in the corner. Well, first I spot the blood leaking through the makeshift bandage on his leg. Then I lock eyes with him, and i can't hold myself back. I fall to my knees by his side, and wrap my arms around his neck. Burying my face into the crook of his neck, I'm pleasantly surprised to see how well it fits in snugly. I breathe in, and I'm engulfed in the scent of the great outdoors, and blood. He holds me gently, as though afraid he could break me, his arms snaking delicately around my waist. I acknowledge his touch immediately, and goosebumps form on my skin. I put this down to his cold hands.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to see you alive," he breathes, his lips brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "I've heard four cannons, and I haven't been able to peer outside to see the projections."

I pull away, and look at him, shocked. "You've been in this cave for nearly three days, bleeding out?"

He looks rather sheepish, and I know that his answer is yes. "You could have died!" I exclaim, though now I'm more conscious of the volume of my voice. "It could be infected!"

"Would you have not wanted me to die?" he teases. One look at him, and I know this flirtatious act is for the cameras. Somehow he must have figured out that the Gamemakers can spy on us in here, and he's using it to his advantage.

Even though I know it's just for show, my cheeks still tinge pink, and I look away from him. "That's a pointless question," I mutter. "I'm just going to check your leg, okay? I did some medical training back home, so I should know how to help you. Is that alright?"

He nods gravely, as I look down at his leg, and see that the blood has completely soaked through the strip of fabric he had. I untie it, and roll his leg sleeve up gently, and can barely keep the gag from coming out. His flesh was sliced in half, the gash at least seven inches, oozing both blood and pus, and from the repulsive smell, I instantly know that it's infected. My expression contorts, my nose wrinkling.

"What, how bad is it?"

Knowing how imperative it is that the patient stays calm, I put on a smile, and rub Grant's hand comfortingly. "I've seen worse, don't worry," I say. "I have some cream in my bag for that, actually . . . "

I'm not sure if the ointment will work, but seeing as though it helped my other cuts, I figured it was worth a chance. I see Grant's bemused expression, and I begin to explain. "It was a gift from a sponsor. I got cut up pretty badly by a mountain lion." I gesture to the cut on my face, and the one on my leg, which have both healed considerably. Grant reaches out and brushes his thumb against the wound, tentatively.

"That was true?" he asks, and I grin at him.

"You didn't believe me? I'm offended" I retort, in mock umbrage. Then I smile again. I'm surprised at how easy flirting can be.

"I didn't doubt you for a second," he tells me, earnestly. Our gaze lingers on each other for a while, until I look away, feeling my cheeks burn up again, and busy myself with his leg. "Now come one, fix me up."

I take out a good, conker sized dollop of the ointment, knowing that if it works half as good on Grant as it did on me, he'll be healed in no time. I brace him for the stinging that would occur, and he grits his teeth. Slowly, I begin to apply the cream, and immediately I can feel his whole body tense up. He has to bite onto his jacket, as I had done, to stop himself from screaming out. When I bring my hand away, he's still seething. Knowing I'm going to have to dress it, I look around me hopelessly for some material to use. There's nothing around, and Grant's gash desperately needs bandaging.

Without hesitation I rip off yet another shred of my shirt, now revealing a tiny strip of my flesh, and begin to wrap Grant's wound. He tries to stop me, but I'm stubborn, and tell him if he won't let me bandage him, he'll bleed to death. "I think I can handle the whole of Panem sneaking a peek at my belly button," I joke, wiping my hands on my leg. "However I don't think I can handle watching you die."

With this, Grant falls solemn, and I'm stuck for what to say next. Instead, I pull out my crackers, and offer him some. Smiling, he takes on. He doesn't waste much time in chewing the cracker, and swallowing it down with a large gulp of water. I find myself laughing as a droplet of water dribbles down his chin. Then I feel bad, and I can almost sense May breathing down my neck. _Be the girl the cameras think you are._ So, instead I reach out my hand, and wipe the bead of water off of his mouth, my thumb brushing against the corner of his lips. My hand stays there for a little longer, and our eyes lock.

In his eyes every memory we've ever shared is projected, and I suddenly am overcome with emotions. Fear, guilt, resent, regret, envy, confusion, gratitude, pity. I don't know why, but when his lips connect with mine, everything washes away, and the image of Grant taking my hand outside of the town square in the rain is the only thing left.

My initial reaction is to push him away, slap him, but I remember that little boy, and the deal we made with May, and I stay there. My hand remains on his cheek, my fingertips curling in his hair, and I even participate in the actual kissing. It's soft, and it's delicate, but it's sweet, and tender. We pull away at the same time, and he's beaming. It's astounding how well he's portraying this whole childhood-sweetheart-crush act, so well in fact, I almost believe it.

Uncomfortable under his stare, I put up a smile, and lean back into his arms. He holds me close, and my cheek is pressed up against his chest, so that I can hear his heartbeat. It's beating rapidly.

"You know, that was my first kiss" he tells me, and somehow I know that this is sincere.

A twinge of guilt pangs in my chest, and I have to plaster on a fake smile. I find myself comparing that kiss with Grant to the one I shared with Lincoln, and how they contrasted so drastically. Grant was so gentle, so compassionate, whereas Lincoln's was so heavy, so lustful. It was for the cameras with Grant, to stay alive. With Lincoln, I feel alive. There's a a blink of memories between me and Grant, yet with Lincoln there's a whole lifetime.

"Yeah, my first kiss too" I lie.

I know it's just for show, but that hurt to say. A lot.


	23. It's Just An Act, It's Just An Act

**A.N: I know that this is late, and I'm so sorry, I've just been so weighed down with schoolwork. I failed five exams recently, at my new school. Not a great start. So, I've been focusing on my French coursework, and my Drama scripts. Hope you guys don't mind that this is late, and please review! Thanks so much. :)**

I wake up warm, and protected. Smiling into his chest, my hand snaked around his waist, I feel his warmth emanating off of him. My stirring must have woken him, as he plants a kiss on my forehead. "Good morning," he mutters into my hair, his voice like butter.

I then realise that I wasn't at home. I wasn't snuggled up to Lincoln. I'm in the Games, and this is Grant. I try not to look so shocked when I peer up into his dark, chestnut eyes. I try to beam at him as though I were in love with him. I try to return his kiss as though I meant it. I try and look at him as though he were the man I was in love with.

I sit up, and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I mutter under my breath that I'll go set some traps, and I reach for my bow, when he pulls me back down, gently. His fingertips are cold, and send goosebumps all up my arm. Sitting up against the cave wall, he slips his arm around me, holding me close. Unsure of what to do, or how to react, I simply snuggle in. My head presses against his chest, and an unwelcome blush rises to my cheek when I feel how solid it is. I wince, and pull my head up, the bruising across my cheek causing me discomfort. Grant reacts immediately, and tucks a finger underneath my chin. Delicately, he runs his thumb along my jawline, tracing the gash.

"It must be hideous," I sigh, unable to meet his eyes. For some reason, I'm embarrassed that half of my face has swollen up, and tinged an ugly mulberry colour. "It feels hideous."

Taking my hand in his, he plants a soft kiss on my knuckles. "You know, I've never seen you without a mark on your face. Whether it's a bruise, or a gash, minor or major; there's always one there," he says, in a voice so tender it was barely audible. "And I've always thought you're the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my eyes on."

Averting my gaze to the ground, I smiled bashfully. I was rarely at a loss for words, and I know that this is all for the cameras, but I had no control over the dizziness in my head, and the shortness of breath.

"You need to keep your strength up - I'll go out and hunt something" I finally say, clambering to my feet before he could object.

Whilst out there, I sit on a rock for a while, allowing the wind to blow through my hair, whipping it all around my face. Though my gaze was focused solely on the tree line around us, I was a million miles away. How could I possibly keep this act up? I'm no flirt. I'm not nervous around boys - far from it. Most of my friends are boys. No, I've just never had romantic feelings for anybody before. I don't know how I'm to behave, or what to say. Grant is so poetic, so natural, so _believable._ All I can offer to the table is the line _'I'll go out and hunt something'_. I could practically hear the sound of May's hand slapping her forehead, and could picture her eyes rolling. If only I had her help. "Please May," I find myself muttering under my breath. "I'm desperate here."

Barely a minute later, I could hear the familiar bleeping of a parachute dropping down by my side, and my heart leaps. Grabbing the note off the top, I read the words hungrily. They're vague, as so to not arouse suspicion from anybody else who can see the message, but I understand completely.

 _'_ _Lincoln says hello' -_ **M**

Pursing my lips together, I pocket the piece of paper, crumpling it slightly, and entered back into the cave. I see Grant's eyes light up when he sees me, and the gift I bring. Internally, I take a huge sigh, and try not to think about the people I'm hurting. I crouch down next to Grant, who was trying to get up. And I kiss him.

It was more intense than our previous kiss, but much tamer compared to mine and Lincoln's. I could feel the heat rising between our mouths, as we breathed heavily. My hands, not quite sure where else to sit, found themselves tangled in Grant's hair. His were placed on my waist, and they way he held me close, pressed up against his body, was on the fine line between uncomfortable and carnal. I wasn't sure how long we stayed like this, but somehow I had clambered onto his lap, mindful of his wound. His hands slid up and down my back, whilst mine clutched ahold of his face. It was kind of like an outer body experience, kissing Grant Ward.

We pulled away, gasping for air. I looked at him, and knew that one kiss wasn't going to sell it. I licked my lips, and cocked my head.

"My word, Grant," I tell him, brushing the hair from my eyes. It had come loose in the night, and my hazel waves hung all around my face. I don't usually like to wear my hair down. "If you kiss like that, I'm going to wonder whether it really was your first kiss or not."

He chuckles, and shakes his head. Somehow, I just know he's telling the truth. "Same could be said about you. That was . . . amazing."

Luckily the blush that spreads across my face could easily be interpreted as modesty. It hid the immense guilt building up inside me. But what did I have to be guilty for? Grant was acting too.

"Do you want to open up the gift from May now?" I ask, climbing off him, and handing him the bar of soap sized metal tin. Gratefully he takes it, smiling at me. I smile back, as I peel off my jacket, suddenly feeling incredibly warm. My veins felt like they were filled with fire. I catch Grant watching me, but immediately switches his gaze to the tin when he realises I've seen him. I chuckle, then sit down next to him. My hands absentmindedly begin to braid my dark chocolate waves, when he reaches out.

"Thank you," he tells me. "For finding me."

I beam at him, and peck his cheek. I feel like that's the right thing to do. His grin confirms it is, and he begins to open the tin. The first thing I notice is the incredible smell wafting out of the container. It's sweet almost, tangy even. Inhaling it, I recognise it distinctly as the dumplings I had on the train, with duck sauce. There's four in there, two each. Grant and I waste no time in digging in, our stomachs giving an enthusiastic rumble as we allow ourselves to realise just how hungry we actually are.

Grant lets me finish the tin off, but I shake my head at him. "You need your strength" I answer, comfortingly placing a hand on his forearm. He still refuses, and threatens to pour it out, unless I eat it. He must know it's my favourite. I thank him, and end up scraping the tin out until it's bone dry.

"Imagine if Coulson could see me now," I joke, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I half expected Grant to look at me, disgusted by my shocking eating habits, but he just chuckles, charmingly.

"Technically, he can," Ward says. I don't think he means it to be a joke, but I laugh anyway, astounded. Never, I don't think, have I heard him crack a joke before. Maybe this is all part of the act, to make him more likeable, more charismatic, so that the cameras and the Capitol will let us live. But then, maybe this is him. This is the Grant Ward everybody else knows. The one I've never met before. Grant Ward might not be the boy who hides behind his mother, who looks away when I catch him staring, who won't stick up for himself against his brother. Maybe _this_ Grant Ward laughs a lot, and tells jokes, and calls girls beautiful.

"You don't have to look so surprised," he says, his lip curling up into a smile. "I do that sometimes, you know. Make jokes."

I still looked shocked. I couldn't help it. "I'm sorry, I've just never heard you . . . say anything funny before." It came out harsher than I anticipated. Immediately, I tried to retract my words, though I knew it was the truth. "I mean, I didn't know you made jokes."

He wasn't offended, instead he just laughed again. "It's fine, I suppose you wouldn't do," he mutters, nodding, not meeting my gaze. "We never really talked before the Games."

"No, we didn't," I agree, nodding. The tension between us thickens, and I know that I can't just kiss him and be done with it. I have to address the situation, for the sake of the cameras, and my sanity. "I guess I always thought it was because you and I were so different. I'm from the Seam, and you're from the town."

Grant's eyebrows knit together, and he looks at me funny, cocking his head to the side. "Why would that makes us different?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I always figured that the kids from the town can't stand those of us in the Seam."

Disbelief is now extremely clear in Grant's eyes, and he just shakes his head. "What makes you think we don't like you?"

"The looks you guys give us, the nasty things you all say behind our backs, we know. We can see you staring at the holes in our clothes and pointing at our ribcages. Katya comes home crying because the girls from the town have pulled at her ribbons, which once used to be my ribbons, which once belonged to another girl who died of malnutrition. None of the town kids make an effort with us. You judge us because we're poor, and we're starving, and because our parents don't love us, or they're dead. The difference is we don't hate you because you have hot dinners every night, and you're parents tuck you in at night, and kiss you before you go to school. We hate you, because you don't help us."

A tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away as soon as I realise what's happening. I glance over at Grant, and see him looking down at his hands, his jaw set. He looks hurt, and immediately feel guilty. I reach across to him, and hold his hand in my own, and they loosen.

"But you, you helped me," I tell him, softly. "You fed the whole orphanage. There were kids in there that were starving, and wouldn't have survived another day if you hadn't thought to do something. I probably wouldn't have lasted. That food kept us going for another few days until I could find food. You saved our lives."

A blush rises to his cheeks, and turns to look me in the eyes. In that moment, when I got to remember the little boy who carried my bag, I allowed myself to be captivated by his chocolate coloured eyes, and I'm lost in them. They were deep and dark and intense, with glorious flecks of amber glinting off of the sunlight peeking through the cracks of our little cave. I could see my own reflection staring back at me, and I could see how horrific I looked. Bloodstains streaked across my face, purple bruises decorated my olive skin, and my own eyes were flat, and lifeless. That's why it didn't make sense, the way Grant was looking at me. It was as though I were the girl he _really_ was in love with.

He leans in, and I think he's going to kiss my lips, and I brace myself, but instead he presses his lips to my forehead. He pulls his lips away, and holds my head to his chest. I don't move - I don't want to. It's nice, to be so warm for once. I listen to his steady heartbeat, and it's calming. I thought that I could drift back to sleep, when a question strikes me.

"Why?"

Grant doesn't need any explanation. He knows what I mean. "You think that you can single-handedly carry everybody else's problems on your back. Nobody can. You're strong, and beautiful, and brilliant, and I wanted to be the one to help you. I wanted you to see me."

"I had seen you before that," I mutter, to which he simply shakes his head.

"You _noticed_ me, but you hadn't seen me," he answers. "It's different."

I struggle to see how, but I don't want to question it. I'm so full after such a wonderful meal, I feel so very phlegmatic. I'm positive that Panem will be hanging on to our every word, and I can't ruin the possibility of never receiving another gift again, so instead I climb back onto Grant, my legs straddling his, my face in line with his, my eyes meeting his. I swing my braid to one side, and lean in to him, inhaling his scent of musky wood and ash.

"Well I see you now" I whisper, my lips brushing his earlobe. I feel him shiver, and I resist the urge to chuckle.

"I didn't think you would ever see me."

"Why not? You're handsome, you apparently make jokes, you're kind," I say, giving him a reassuring smile. Just because we're acting, doesn't mean I can't be nice. "You're a damn sight better than majority of the boys at school, who think it's funny to throw clay at little girls and throw pencils at the back of their heads. Just a few months ago one of those assholes from your grade took my bag and threw it into the boys toilet."

Grant laughed, and I was taken aback by this outburst. I furrow my brow, and look at him oddly. "And here I am thinking you're one of the nice ones."

"Do you ever wonder why they do these things? Why they would throw things at you, take your things?"

"Because they're dicks?"

"They like you, Daisy. They all look at you, and see the stunning girl I see, and want you. They can't have you, because you're untouchable. Town boys usually don't want to tell their mother's that they want to marry a girl from the Seam."

The word _usually_ sticks in my mind, as I find his lips on mine. I don't know if he's telling the truth, or if he's doing as May says and making me appear likeable, but it makes my heart flutter.

We're still kissing, and I get lost in the movement of our lips, and the way they mesh together, when the sound of a cannon resonates. In the shock, I bite Grant's lip. I pull away, tasting blood, my eyes wide. I'm looking around, towards the entrance, expecting an intruder to burst through at any second. Grant places his hand on my leg, and comfortingly rubs it, his other hand finding home on my cheek.

"It's okay, the cannon came from miles away, nobody's here," he assures me, though I notice his voice is considerably quieter. "We're safe, I promise."

I breathe in, and nod my head. I'm afraid, frightened of death, but I don't want to let it show. I can't show it. The Gamemakers can't see it, the Capitol can't see it, the sponsors can't see it, Grant can't see, Lincoln can't see it, and Katya can't see it. I don't want them to worry more about me. I know that even being here in this cave, kissing Grant, is going to hurt Lincoln, and confuse Katya. But this is how I'm going to survive. If I let them know that I'm terrified of dying, that makes it a possibility, and I can't have them thinking that. Imagining them watching me, waiting for me to die, makes me feel sick.

So instead, I put on a brave face, and I smile at Grant. I rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes. I try to focus on him, and only him. My anchor. I may not love him, and I may not have chosen to be in this position, but I care about him, and I need him to get me through this alive.

"I need to clean your wound, if that's okay with you?" I ask him, sliding a hand down his chest as I smile softly at him. He beams back, pecking my nose, and nods. I clamber off of him, and reach for the pail of water by his knee. I roll up his trouser leg, and see that yet again, he's bled through his bandage. I peel it off, and I can't help but turn my nose up at the sight of his unfurling flesh. I pour a splash of water on, and dap at it with the left over scrap of material in my hand, but it doesn't seem to be working. I look up to see his shirt in a crumpled ball in his hand, and his bare chest glistening with sweat. Muscles sculpted to perfection, I still feel awkward staring at them.

"I don't need it, it's fine" he says, lip curled up in a slick grin.

"Won't you get cold?" I inquire, tearing my eyes away from his abs.

"I think it's actually pretty warm in here," he shrugs. "Don't you."

I shake my head. "Grant, it's freezing," I tell him. With this, I place a hand against his sticky forehead, and I can feel him burning up. "You've got a fever, that's why. This cut - it's making you sick."

"I'll be alright" he replies. He doesn't understand the severity of the situation, because he doesn't understand medicine the way I do. I was taught by the apothecary in town, by way of payment for the witch hazel I supply him with regularly. At first it was just so I could take care of Katya when she got meningitis, but then I really started to enjoy it. It was a way I could relieve stress, and feel like I was doing something right for once. Not illegal, not dull, something meaningful. After I left school, the apothecary assured me that I could have a job there.

Now, I've never been more glad that I walked into that building, because they taught me everything I need to know. Everything I need to know to save his life, because if I don't know how to fix this wound before tonight, Grant will be dead before the morning.


	24. Belated Birthday Wishes

That afternoon, I must have fought, and fought, and fought with him until I went blue in the face. Nobility was the reason he refused to let me go out and scavenge for some herbs and plants that could make his leg better. That would make _him_ better. Apparently it was too risky. I honestly couldn't care in the slightest, because I have a slight chance in dying out there - whereas he's certainly going to die.

Normally, I wouldn't waste a single moment bargaining with anybody when it came to doing things I wanted, or deemed necessary. I don't want much, and I most definitely never ask for anything. However, there was something about the way Grant held onto my arm as he pleaded with me not to leave him that made me stay. I scold myself for falling deeper into this pretence. I couldn't let my false romance with him cloud my judgement. If he needs medicine, I should go find him some medicine, no matter how tentative his touch his.

Instead, I sighed. I sighed, and sank back against the wall. The stone was cold, and I shivered. Next to me I could feel the heat emanating off of Grant, warming up the whole of my right side. Really, I would have liked a second to breathe by myself, not constantly encased in somebody else, relying on him to watch out for me. Except I was far too cold, and far too exhausted to even try and convince myself not to lean against him, and not to fall asleep in his arms.

For the first time in what felt like years, I dreamt. About home. Not the overcrowded, falling-to-pieces shack I grew up in, no, but the woods just outside. Behind the wire, where the fields seemed to stretch out in front of me, leaving the scenery awash with emerald. That, to me, is home, among the flowers, and the animals, and the trees.

It was there I was happiest. It was there I remember the best things. Watching the rabbits with Katya. I can hear her laughter in my ears, the joyful sound reverberating through my mind, as I picture her beaming at me through the rows of lavender bushes. Fishing with Jem and Buckley, who could catch carp, and pike, the likes of which I could never even spot, let alone hook. It always made me reassurance bringing them out to the woods, so that once in a while they could breathe some fresh air, and learn a little something about the world around them. Celebrating birthdays with Lincoln must be my favourite memory though. I loved surprising him with gifts, and I love how excited he would be to give me my present.

That's when I wake up, abruptly. It was like a brick to the head, when I remembered. Six days ago, upon arriving in the arena, was my birthday. My seventeenth. I am seventeen. I'm seventeen.

"I'm seventeen?" I mutter, disbelieving the words.

Grant stirs beside me, and I nudge him awake, in a dazed stupor, stunned. He jolts, looking around the room with wide, cautious eyes, until they settle on me, and he relaxes. I can't help my beam now, and it's spreading across my face. I'm giddy, and I'm delirious.

"My birthday . . . July 2nd . . . " is all I can get out.

Realisation dawning on his face, he holds my face in his hands, and smiles. "Your birthday? Your seventeenth, right?"

I nod.

"And today's the . . . seventh . . . July 7th. Daisy, you're birthday . . . "

I was so caught up in the fact I was another year older, that the fact my birthday was little under a week ago now hadn't resonated with me, until Grant said so. My face fell, ever so slightly, and I curled my lip. For a moment there, I had a little glimmer of happiness, and I enjoyed it. Now, I felt guilty for being happy, and I was filled with a heavy, sinking feeling, as though I had been pumped with lead.

"I can't believe I forgot," I mutter, barely audible.

"You have had other things on your plate, to be fair," Grant assured me, stroking my hair ever so gently. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

I simply nodded, and I leant into his touch.

"Let me be the first to say happy seventeenth," he whispers into my hair. I chuckle slightly, though it's halfhearted. I can feel him smiling, and this makes the corners of my lip tug upwards.

Closing my eyes, I tried to make the stinging in my eyes go away, and to lift the weight off my chest. In the short few days I've spent in here, in the Games, I've realised that only Grant can calm me down. Only his touch, and his scent, and his voice can soothe me. I suppose it's because right now, he's my anchor. He's the one who's going to get me home. I wouldn't have made it this far without him, and I suppose that's why I feel safe when I'm with him - when he's holding me. _Not_ , I remind myself with a jolt, _because I like him in that sort of way._

I simply can't go back to sleep, so instead, I look up at Grant, who I find is already looking down at me. He's grinning, and I grin back, finding it nearly impossible not to.

"Why did you volunteer for somebody who isn't your family?" he asks me, in a gentle voice. I don't hate him for asking the question - I don't even hate the question itself. I hate the fact that the whole of Panem are going to hear the answer.

"Katya is my family," I reply, in a small voice, in hope that the cameras can't pick it up. However, I just know that they can. "Everyone in the orphanage - they're all my family. We look out for each other, we protect each other. We're there for each other, because our parents couldn't. I guess I volunteered for Katya, because even though she's not my sister, or my daughter, or my anything really, I couldn't risk failing her. I promised her she wouldn't be picked, and she was. That was on me. So I had to fix it."

"It was the bravest thing I've ever seen," he tells me, without hesitation.

"It really wasn't that brave - "

"Yes, it was Daisy."

"Anybody else would have - "

"Nobody else did. Nobody else _does._ Twelve year olds are picked every year, from every District, and nobody volunteers to save them," Grant sighs, in a tone I recognise as distinctly guilty. "I've never volunteered to save a single tribute, because every year I was praying and hoping it wasn't me. I never realised that by wishing it wasn't me, I was wishing it was somebody else. _Until it was me._ Never would I have considered volunteering. You did. You put somebody else before yourself, without a shred of doubt. You volunteered for a televised fight-to-the-death. That's bravery."

"It was reckless," I admit. "By volunteering, I've not only hammered the nail in not only my coffin, but in Katya's. She's not going to last five minutes in the orphanage without me."

"Is the orphanage really that bad?" Grant asks me, in a hushed, and soft tone.

I don't know how to keep myself together, and answer. I was trembling, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as all the memories of being a terrified little girl, trapped inside this damp and dark building came flooding back. Grant, sensing my disquietude, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, holding me close. My hand found it's home on his chest, and he held it there with one of his own. My ear was pressed against his heart, and I listened intently to his heartbeat. It was racing, and I pegged that to the fact he was feverish.

"I've never known a mother's touch. I've never known the sound of her lullaby. Nobody sang to me as a child, or hugged me, or loved me, really. The orphanage was a lonely place when I was little. Everybody was afraid, and cold, and hungry. I didn't know how to fight back then, so most of my scars were from when I was to young to know any different."

"Did they beat you?" he asked me, tentatively. I nod.

Sitting up, I shrugged off my jacket, and slipped off what was left of my shirt. This left me in just my plain, black bra, which had lasted this long. Grant uncomfortably shifted, not knowing where to look. Curling my fingers around his right hand, I pulled it closer so that I could feel the heat emanating from his skin on mine. Then, finding a wispy scar on my shoulder, as long as my thumb, I get him to trace his fingers over it.

"This one is for asking where my mother and father are," I explain, in a wavering voice. "I was made to wear a sign on my back for three weeks that read; ' **not only am I unwanted and unloved, I am also incompetent and a waste.** The string cut into my flesh, and stripped it raw. I was four."

His expression was horrified. Dropping my own hand, his trailed onto a scar I had on my collarbone. It was horizontal, and was incandescent in the light.

"This one is when I found I had been left in the back of a truck. Apparently I was crying too loudly. To stop, they forced my head into a tub of water for long periods of time, for about half an hour. The tub was sharp, and cut me."

Grant, shaking his head with disbelief, found the scar on my cheek, the opposite cheek to where my previous cut is. It was thin, and shaped like an arrowhead - ironically. Tracing it with his forefinger, I shuddered under his touch.

"I got this the day you came round with your mother with he feast. The minute you left, actually," I tell him. This takes him by surprise, and his eyes widen. "Dr. List hit me with his belt. He doesn't take too kindly to people treating us like human beings, you see. You and Petra turning up with food fit for kings and queens, well, he perceived this as humiliation. He thought you were mocking him. He knew you arrived because of me, so he took his anger out, _on me_."

Disgusted, and guilt-stricken all at the same time, Grant delicately brushed his knuckles against my scar. Leaning down to press his forehead against mine, he he hoisted me up onto his lap, with tremendous strength, lifting me as though I weighed nothing. Heavily breathing, the pair of us stared at one another, the air around us thick and heavy. My voice hitched in my throat, and I gasped. I was half-naked, and he was half-naked, and this was about as bare as I had gotten with anybody. Of course Lincoln and I had gone swimming in the lake - stripping down to nothing sometimes, but this was different. It was intimate, and it was passionate, somehow.

 _It's acting. It's just make believe._

Yet, for some unknown reason, I found myself slipping out of conscience, floating away from my body. My lips landed on Grant's own, and we were kissing as though we were alone. It was as if I were watching myself, and I had no control over my actions. I didn't want to kiss, Grant - but apparently I did. I didn't know why, and I tried to pull myself away. However, there was something about him that kept me pulled in. I didn't know if it was the pressure of his lips on mine, how we moved simultaneously, slotting together like a jigsaw. Or if it was his hands on my back; strong yet gentle, clutching my hips so that I was as close to his body as physically possible, making me feel both protected, and wanted. Or if it was my hand in his hair, my fingers twisting though his dark locks, tangling like vines.

I didn't know why I wanted to stay there, and I didn't care. There was no reason good enough to tear myself away from his touch, because the most important reason was keeping her there - our lives.

Grant looked up at me, breaking free from the kiss for a mere few seconds. His eyes bore into my own, and they shone. He placed his hands on my cheeks, his thumbs stroking my skin gently. I realised that my bruise didn't pain me at all when he held me this softly.

"You don't deserve to be afraid, and beaten," he told me. "You deserve to be held, and touched, and kissed like this everyday."

"You say that like you don't deserve any of those things," I whisper. "You do, you know. You deserve just as much, and more, Grant Ward. You're beautiful, and you're gentle, and you're brave, and you're kind, and please don't ever think you're less."

Grant looked at me as though it were the first time, he was in awe. It was when I first doubted whether this was an act for him. Whether he was pretending to like me.

"I don't deserve you."

Then he kissed me again, and I didn't care about anything. He had to be acting, because nobody could kiss me like this and mean it.


	25. Poet

**A.N: Anybody seen the new The 5th Wave film yet? Oh my God, I love it so much. It's perfect, and the cast is perfect, and I swear to God there better be another film afterwards. Evan Walker is just the greatest. And Chloe Grace Moretz is the coolest person ever. If you haven't seen yet, go watch it now.**

 **P.S: If you have, see if you recognise any part of this story :)**

Grant's hand slides down my thigh, and this was when I had to pull away. Somehow my trousers had been discarded, and his hands were now on my bare legs. I thought about Lincoln, watching back home. Somehow, it always comes back to him. I didn't want him to see me kissing another boy. How would he feel if he saw me allow myself to be _touched_ like this. I know that if I was in his position, and he was quite literally in mine - kissing and touching another girl - I would struggle. Jealousy is the wrong word, but it's the only one appropriate to the situation. We're not a couple I know, but he's my best friend in the whole world. It must be awkward, at least.

"Grant, we're on camera," I tell him, in a teasing manner, though I could practically feel my cheeks burning up. "We can't do _that_."

Running his tongue across his bottom lip, causing my heart to flutter slightly, he pulled my waist closer to him. He kissed me, passionately, but short. "I can't help how you make me feel," he mutters, huskily. "What you make me want to do."

My hands course through my hair, my thin fingers finding little knots, pushing my locks from out of my face. I'm shaking my head at Grant, laughing slightly. He's a damn good actor. Shame I know better to not believe anything that he's saying. Not that he's not a trustworthy person - far from it. It's just we're both pretending. I'd be foolish to think what he's telling me is the truth.

"Shut up Grant," I chuckle, trying to get up off his lap.

However, he pulls me back down, his grip tentative. Biting my lip, I cock my head, his eyes staring into mine. His hands are on my practically bare back, and they were scorching compared to my own chilled flesh.

"How would you describe yourself?" he asked me, out of the blue.

I stumble over the words. "I don't know," I finally say. Pausing to think, I add; "Determined, I guess. Stubborn, bold. Tough."

Nothing else. No other words came to mine, and it was distressing. I was just regurgitating exactly what others had called me beforehand. _Liar_. That was something I couldn't say.

"Is that it?" he asks me, tucking a strand of hair behind my hair. I shrug. "You know what I think when I see you?" I nod.

He takes my hands in his. I internally cringe when I see my blackened nails, grime buried underneath them. "I see these hands and I think hard-worker. You're a girl who doesn't think twice about getting filthy, and doing what she has to for others."

"Man's hands" I joke.

Grant laughs, but shakes his head. "So what if they're dirty? You've got healer's hands, and hunter's hands. That's a rare combination, and it's incredible."

Then, he gently brushes my legs with his fingertips, causing goosebumps to appear on my skin. The trail he takes stat at my ankles, and end where my hips begin. I shiver, and he seems to be breathless at the kind of effect he had on me. Though, it's not the effect _he_ had on me - it's the fact that a boy is running his hands up and down my thigh. Not him. _Certainly not him_.

"These feet, these legs, they've walked so far. They've took you places others are too afraid to see, and that is admirable," he mutters. "You're brave, Daisy. Extremely."

I suddenly find looking him in the eyes very difficult, and my gaze flits down to my hands, which I'm nervously twisting. He then strokes my face, and instinctively, I lean into his touch. His palm is warm, and comforting.

"This face - it's the most beautiful I've ever laid my eyes on," he gasps, and suddenly I'm caught in his gaze again. It's intriguing, and mesmerising. "You're captivating, and stunning, and I could stare at your face for eternity, and never get tired."

My mouth hangs open. _I know it's not true, I know it's not true._ But it's elegant, and poetic, and I'm in love with his words. After all this, Grant could go on to be a poet. He really could.

He delicately touches my scars across my collarbone, and shoulders, and the little wispy ones across my body, and he smiles. "These scars, they mean you've lived. You've fought, and you've loved, and you're passionate. Don't ever be ashamed of them."

I smile at him, and lick my drying lips out of habit, and shake my hair free from my face. This seems to have a conflicting effect.

"God, you're so sexy. I know you'd never call yourself that, but you are. You're sexy, and you're gorgeous, without even trying."

He kisses me without hesitation, and I kiss back. We remain like this for a while; me on his lap, hands in his hair, his hands on my hip, when I realise that there will be something May will be crying out for, more than another steamy kiss. It's participation. I can't just take all of his compliments, smile, flip my hair, and kiss him. I have to make the audience believe that I feel just as deeply for Grant as he does for me.

I break free from his kiss, but keep my hands in his hair. I run my fingers through his dark, chocolatey locks, biting my lip. He's looking up at me with this dopey sort of grin; I suppose any boy would smile like this when they have a half-naked girl on their lap.

"Do you know what I think of you?" I whisper, running my finger along his jawline. Nothing ceased to amaze me about his astonishing bone structure. "I think that you're brave too, and you're beautiful, and brilliant. You've saved my life multiple times, and I can't thank you enough. You saved the lives of my friends in the orphanage, and that's a debt I can never repay you for. You've done so many amazing things for me. And that's the kind of boy you are; you do nice things for people, and never expect anything back."

Grant looks kind of sheepish at my words, and looks down into his lap, just as I had done. I give him a soft smile.

"At school, I would see you with your friends, smiling and laughing. You know what to do to help people. You knew how to help me. You're incredible, and you should see that in yourself. You should see what an amazing and wonderful person you are. It took me too long to see it. But you are, okay."

I gently force Grant's face up by tucking my finger under his chin, and I place a soft kiss on his lips. I think I've gotten better at this now; the whole _pretending to be in love_ act. _Star-crossed lovers and all._ I kiss with more ease, and I don't feel so tense no doing it. I don't even have to think twice about leaning in to peck his cheek. I'd even go so far as to say it was second nature now.

With this kiss, I carefully climbed off him, and perch next to him, stumbling slightly over the pile of our crumpled clothes. Grant chuckles and I playfully slap his chest.

"You look tired, Grant, you should get some rest."

Nodding, he finds my hand, and holds tight. I squeeze it reassuringly, and I can feel his grip loosening as he drifts off to sleep, exhausted. Immediately, I see this as my chance to find something, some kinds of herbs or plants to calm the infection - but instead, I too fall asleep - unable to control the drooping of my eyes. I was weak, and I was tired, and I should have stayed awake. However, there was something about being with Grant, talking to Grant - even kissing Grant, that made me feel calm, despite the butterflies I have in my chest ever time I look at him. It's nerves, about saying the wrong thing, and doing the wrong thing. I've never been in love before - or never had to show love to another boy before. Lincoln floats in front of my eyes, and wonder if this means I love him as a brother, like I'd always believed, or if I love him like I'm supposed to love Grant.

I dream of home again, of the woods. Of the rolling, emerald hills and the blossoming bloom that decorates the view. The sound of the stream running in the distance was peaceful, and I inhaled the scent of the refreshing pines that coated the tree line. It was such a beautiful day out, and it was perfect. In my hands I was holding my bow - though it was more like an extension of my arm. I was wearing my trademark green sweater, three sizes too big, and my boots, that moulded to my feet faultlessly.

Closing my eyes, I felt a smile spread across my face. Opening them, I found Katya skipping amongst the dandelions in front of them, giggling. Her hair was free, and flowing in the wind, and her grin rivalled mine. She was happy, so I was happy. I called out to her, and she waved at me. Then, her face lit up, as she looked past me, waving enthusiastically. Furrowing my eyebrows, I wondered what she was looking at. Or who.

"Daisy!" I heard a voice call out to me, predominantly male, and particularly familiar.

And that's when I woke up. Feeling a cold absence beside me, I forced my eyes to open, abruptly and suddenly. I know Grant wasn't beside me, even before looking. This caused a panic to wash over me, and I scrambled to my feet without hesitation. I hissed Grant's name, aimlessly, but the sound just reverberated off of the walls. Throwing on my trousers and the black tee, I burst through the vines concealing our entrance, and rushed outside. The light of the afternoon sun burned my eyes, and I had to squint, bringing a hand to my face to shield them. Worried, and fearing the worst, desperately I combed the area. The stream that ran in front of me, and past the cave, lead out to a wide lake, around seven meters away from me, concealed by trees and shrubbery.

It was there that I saw him. Grant was bathing in the lake, the water up to his bare torso. Now, outside in the light, I could fully appreciate just how sculpted Grant's body was. My mouth hung open, unintentionally, and I felt my heart rate increase profusely.

In my stupor, I saw him turn to face me, and instinctively I look away, embarrassed. My face feels warm, and it's not because of the sun. I try walking away, but Grant is calling out to me, grinning, and I know that if he continues, we could have the rest of the tributes after us in a mere few minutes. I approach him, quickly, holding finger to my lips to keep him quiet.

"Please, you need to keep quiet. There are five of them still out there; three are Careers, one of them is Quinn," I tell him, stood barefoot on the water's edge. "No doubt they're looking for us right now, and I like where we are. It's safe here - or at least it will be when you stop shouting." I laugh slightly, and so does he.

"I scared you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did, asshole!" I reply, slapping his chest, though I immediately regret it, as a shiver runs up my spine. "I thought you'd been taken, or gone on some crazy suicide mission or something!"

Grant laughed again, this time softer, and he planted a kiss on my forehead. "You talk in your sleep you know," he told me, gently. "You said her name. Are you okay?"

"It was a good dream," I answer, inhaling his scent, which now was mingled with the scent of the lake. "She was happy. What did you dream about?"

He chuckles mischieviously, I instantly know what he's getting at, and I blush furiously. Grant reaches out and takes my hand. His is still damp from the lake, and it's refreshing. He leads me towards the water, where he insists I join him. Glancing at the looming, dark turquoise liquid, I shake my head, instead opting to sit on a rock.

"Not a fan of the water?" he asks me, he himself hobbling back in. I notice that he's taken off the bandage, and his leg looks horrific.

Smiling sadly, I nod. "Simulated-drowning is one of the orphanage's favourite discipline exercises" I say. Grant looks both furious and disturbed. He continues to wash himself, and I'm fascinated by his glistening body, his muscles contracting with every little movement.

I sigh, and sit back. If every day could be like this, then I'd perhaps not be so afraid. However, I especially know that the good times do not last.

And it turns out, I was right. Grant collapses, and I rush towards him, breathing ragged. He's convulsing in the water, and I have to wade in to reach him. It's horrible, and I hate it, but I have to get to him. Hoping and praying out loud that he wouldn't die, I drag him out, stumbling occasionally over my own feet. I curse a lot, and tears of frustration and fear start to stream from my eyes. I can't stop them - I have no control over them any more.

I take Grant in to the cave, where I prop his head up with my tattered jacket, rushing outside to soak some leaves in the cool water. I hurry back to him, spreading the leaves across his head, knowing that this should cool him down. How I didn't realise before, is beyond me, but now I notice that he's in his boxers. However awkward it is, it's also convenient, because this way I can get to his wound better.

It's burst, and it's bleeding profusely. I scavenge through my bag, where I find the thin sleeping blanket. I wrap his leg in that, fully aware that it might ruin it for further use, but I don't like the thought of tearing my shirt up anymore. Then, as he falls in and out of consciousness, I sit back against the wall, crying. I'm angry, and I'm scared, and I'm worried, waiting for Grant to die. I'm angry with May, because she could have sent down parachutes to help us with this. I'm scared because I don't know how I'm going to face Quinn and Kara alone. I'm worried because I don't want to return home, with everybody knowing that I failed Grant.

I bang my skull against the hard, stone wall out of desperation. The tears are like second nature now, and I don't even know that they're still flowing out of me. My nails are digging into my palm, and my knuckles have turned white.

I don't love Grant Ward, but I don't know what I'll do if he dies. And that scares me, the fact that I can't imagine living without him.

Suddenly, an announcement is played through the invisible speakers throughout the arena, and I'm reminded of the Game I'm playing.

"Remaining tributes, congratulations for reaching this stage in the competition. To commemorate your wondrous achievements, we invite you all to a feast held at the Cornucopia. There, you will find something each of you needs desperately, whether it'll be food, matchsticks, or medicine. We hope to see you all there! Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

In a dazed blur, I turn to Grant, and I watch as he turns to me, shaking his head slowly. "Don't go," he mumbles, hoarsely. "Don't risk it just for me."

I kiss his forehead, feeling just how warm he is through my lips, and I just smile reassuringly at him. He then falls unconscious again, and I wait a few minutes again until I know that he definitely won't wake up any time soon. Glancing down at him, he looks so peaceful, and I don't feel so guilty about leaving him.

"It's a risk I'll have to take."


	26. Running, Running, Running

**A.N: So, so, so, sorry for the uber-late update, I had just lost inspiration for this story. However, I'm back now, and just as eager to continue this story as ever. Hope you enjoy! Sorry again for the wait.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games._**

The run to the Cornucopia is long and arduous, and I have to stop for breath multiple times. I'm appalled at my shabbiness, when I know I can usually do a solid few miles without batting an eyelid. I suppose that's what staying cooped up in a cave for three days does to you. If anything, this run is going to do me a whole world of good.

Through my ragged breathing, I realise that I have other things to stress about, rather than my deflated stamina levels. The others, the tributes left. Ian, Kara, Raina, the boy from 4 who's name and face escape me, and the redhead from 5. They'll have heard the announcement too; I'd be foolish to think they hadn't. They'll all need things too no doubt.

I keep running, despite the stitch in my chest, and the searing pain in my right arm and leg - the wounds must have split open. I keep running, despite my paranoia of Quinn tackling me from out of the tree line. I keep running, despite my crippling fear of death, because I know that I have to save Grant. I have to keep him alive, because that means keeping me alive. My anchor.

 _Would he do the same for me_ , I find myself wondering. _Would he be out here risking his life to find some medicine that could save my life, or would he just give up and call it a day?_ Some part of me, the same part that enjoys his kisses and craves his warmth, knew deep down that he would risk everything for me. Why, though, he'd want to save just another orphaned girl from the Seam, I don't know. But then, the same could be said about this act of his. This act of _ours._ Why do we embrace so much, and kiss so much, and smile so much when we're with each other? _It's for the cameras,_ I remind myself. _It's to put on a show for the Capitol._

Yet, why do we do it so often? Why do we fall asleep in each other's arms, when all it would take is a kiss here and there to convince the audience? And the question I was too afraid to ask myself; why do I want to fall asleep with him? Why is I want to feel his arms around me, encasing me in his strong physique? Why is it our lips fit together so well?

 _Shut up_ , I hiss, willing myself to forget the matter. _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ He kisses me because he has to, and I kiss back because I have to. Whether he lingers or not is inapplicable. If his lips are soft, and inviting; that's irrelevant. The fact that I can so easily lose myself in his touch is inconsequential. Whether I find him extremely handsome or not is besides the point.

I nearly trip over a long, outstretched root, buried deep in the earth beneath me. Stopping to catch my breath, I scold myself for getting distracted. I persevere, when I remember who I got distracted by, and why I'm here for them in the first place. If I can't get to that medicine and have it on Grant in the next hour, then I don't see him waking up ever again.

I don't think I could possibly ever live with myself if Grant died.

Blood is trailing down my arm and leg now from the gashes left by the mountain lion, and my braid is whipping at my neck, harshly. Every noise I make - the twigs snapping, leaves crunching under my feet - causes me to curse under my breath, knowing that it's only going to attract unwanted attention. The cameras must be on all of us sprinting for the Cornucopia, as the lack of brutality in the past few days will have driven the audience audience to the brink of boredom. I wonder if Lincoln and Katya could see me right now, and whether they support my decision to face certain death for a boy. Katya was a hopeless romantic, and so if she had fallen for the charade, then I could picture her cheering for me louder than anybody else. Lincoln however, if that kiss was anything to go by, would be feeling all kinds of wounded. I wonder what he makes of all this kissing I'm doing with Ward.

I haven't given much thought to the kiss _we_ shared before I left. I'd only had questions, never any answers. Now was not the right time to come up with those answers.

I see an all too familiar flash of fiery red hair in between the shrubbery a couple of metres away from me, and I know I'm no longer alone.

I'm running so fast my legs have turned numb, and I'm not all that sure I'm even using them any more. I finally break from the trees, and I'm a good two hundred metres away from the Cornucopia. The ginger haired girl shoots past me, as I stop to survey my surroundings. My heart hammering in my chest, I watched with disbelief as the girl sprinted her way towards the sack that has her district number sewn on, sitting on the table laid out for us by the Gamemakers. Peering around the tree line that encircles the plain field of grass, I spot the boy from 4 struggling to catch his breath, watching with eagle eyes as the redhead swoops in and grabs her gift.

Then, the boy, who must have been no older than fourteen, the spear in his hand incredibly out of place, locked eyes with me. I had a split second to decide if I should hang back and let him retrieve his sack, and then go after mine risking him snatching my own gift in the process, or chase him to Cornucopia, and run all the way back, hoping that he won't try and run after me.

I chose the latter.

I've always been the fastest in my class; I had to be. When I was little I ran from those who would pull my hair. When I reached my teenage years, I would run from predators in the woods. Surprisingly, I had an easier time escaping the wolves after the rabbit I'd caught then the nasty Town girls who'd run after me with scissors, laughing and teasing me, threatening to cut my hair off.

I reach the Cornucopia in under thirty seconds, the boy was too far behind that I needn't worry about him. It was the Career _inside_ the Cornucopia I should have bargained for. Kara bursts out, brandishing her gleaming daggers. She is grinning maliciously, weapon drawn.

"Where's your boyfriend, Twelve?" she spits, cocking her head to the side. I reach for my own knife at my hip, but she's clocked on faster than I had hoped, and she pushes me to the floor, harshly. "Leg fallen off yet?"

Gritting my teeth, I thrust the dagger forward, causing Kara to keep her distance long enough for me to scramble back up to my feet. "He's out here right now, hunting you bastards down. Ward!" I call out, equally as raucous.

Kara jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cutting off my voice. I stumble back to the ground, and she's upon my faster than a bolt of lightning. "Liar, he's nearly dead. Quinn knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped to some tree whilst you run around playing nurse. He's probably bleeding out as we speak. What's in that backpack? Medicine for Lover boy? Shame he won't ever get it."

"Now you know that just isn't true," I tease, coyly. Doubt clouds her eyes, and I know that at least for a moment she's considering I'm telling the truth.

Kara opens up her jacket, and I see that it's lined with an impressive array of knives. Carefully selecting a dainty little number, with a cruel, curved blade, she runs her tongue across her teeth, smirking wickedly. "I promised Quinn if he let me have you, I'd put on a good show."

I;m struggling now in an effort to unseat her, but it's no use. She's too heavy, her lock on me too tight, and I'm too skinny to overpower her.

"Forget it Twelve, there's no hope for you any more, just like there was no hope for your friend, that pathetic tree-hopper you hung around with - what was his name? Ace? Well, first Ace, then you, and then we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy, alright? How does that sound?" she asks. "Now where to start?"

She traces the wound on my cheek with the tip of the blade, opening it back up again. I bite my tongue to refrain from screaming out, scalding blood already trickling down my face. Then, digging the knife deeper into my skin, she drags the blade upwards, laughing as she carved into my flesh. Blurry spots appear in front of my eyes and the pain is past excruciating now, it's more anaesthetised. Kara cuts a C- shape into the right side of my face, starting on my cheek bone, curving around my temple, and ending just above my eyebrow. It's shaped just like a crescent moon.

She's still chuckling to herself as she moves the blade and holds it up to her lips, pondering where she's going to jam it next.

I don't look away, and I refuse to allow myself to scream out in pain, refuse to let my eyes shut. Instead, I stare right into the eyes of Kara Palamas, as my last act of defiance before I die. The comment about Ace, and the comments about Ward, have filled me with fury, enough fury, I think, to die with dignity. I will die, in my own small way, undefeated.

I brace myself for the pain, when I feel a great force yank Kara off of my body. I'm too stunned at first, too stunned to move. Has Ward come to my aid? Have the Gamemakers sent in some wild animal to do the job for them? Has a hovercraft inexplicably come to pick us off one by one?

As I push myself up on my numb arms, I see that it's none of the above. The blood flowing into my eyes and obscuring my vision was enough to make me disbelieve what I was seeing. Raina stands there, behind Kara, holding a rope taut around her neck. I'm shocked at the immense strength she is showing from holding Kara back off me. She's choking, and she's struggling, nails clawing at the rope in an attempt to break free, going beetroot red in the face, but Raina is standing her ground.

"What did you do to that little boy?" she demands, and I jump back. "You killed her?"

Vigorously, Kara tries to shake her head, her protests coming out in strangled gargles. "I . . . I never . . . I never - "

"I heard you, you said his name!" Raina interjects. Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to her. "You cut him up like you were cutting this girl up?"

Raina never got her answer, as Kara fell limp, her eyes slipping shut. Letting loose of the rope, allowing Kara to slump to the ground, and as the cannon fires, Raina turns to me. I half accept her to tie the rope around my neck too, but deep down I knew that she wouldn't.

"What did she mean by 'your friend'?" she inquires, curiously, and cautiously.

"We teamed up," I reply, simply and honestly. "We blew up the supplies together. I tried to save her - I really did - but he got there first. District 1."

"And you killed him?" she asks, slowly.

I nod. "I killed him. And I sung her to sleep, I held her until she died, and I buried her in flowers."

Tears spring to my eyes. The tension, the fight, seeps out of me at the memory, and I'm no longer afraid of death. I don't want to go down kicking and screaming, I'm contempt with a swift blow to the head if it means the guilt and the heartache will disappear. "Just do it quickly, please Raina?" I plead, closing my eyes.

When nothing happens, I open them again, only to be surprised yet again by Raina. Conflicting emotions cross her face, strikingly soft. "This one time, I'll let you go. For Ace. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. Alright?" she says, almost accusingly.

I nod, gratefully.

"Thank you, truly."

"Kara?" calls a voice from inside the forest, unmistakably Quinn's.

Glancing over at me, Raina picks up her bag, and begins to run. "Better find your way back to Ward, before they get to you, Daisy Johnson," she warns.

I don't need to be told twice. Grasping out for my sack, my feet dig into the hard-packed earth as I run away from Raina, and Kara's body, and the sound of Quinn's voice. Only when I reach the tree line do I look back. Both Raina and the two bags are vanishing over the edge of the patch of grass, as Quinn kneels beside Kara, spear in hand. He's shaking her violently, begging her to stay with him, denying the sound of the cannon that echoed through the arena just a minute ago. In a moment he'll realise it's futile; that she's already gone.

I crash into the trees, repeatedly bringing my hand up to wipe away the droplets of blood streaming into my eyes. I'm seized with terror at the thought of Quinn bounding into the woods after me. I can guarantee a sure shot with my arrow, but I can't guarantee that I'll be fast enough. The only thing that keeps me from sprinting as fast as I can is the thought that he'll go after Raina instead. She does have the bag that contains the things he most desperately needs, seeing as I blew up his only supplies. He'll be on her trail not mine, and though it's a relief to me, I feel almost bad for her, a pang of remorse coursing through my veins.

Out of frustration I pull off the pair pair of socks that I've been using as gloves, to staunch the flow of blood that's seriously damaging my sight. They're soaked in minutes.

Somehow, I make it back to the cave. I squeeze through the rocks and brush the vines aside. In the dappled light I search for Ward, shaking with adrenaline and fear.

I find him, still fast asleep - or unconscious, either or is expected - against the cave wall, a pool of fluids flowing from his gash, seeping out of his makeshift bandage. I perch myself on the cold floor next to him, feeling the heat radiating off of him instantly, and I gently peel of the fabric. Then, I reach inside the sack, where my hands encase just what I had been praying for. One slim box containing a hypodermic needle. Without hesitation, I jam the needle point into Ward's leg, and slowly press down on the plunger. The liquid flows into his body, and I breath a sigh of relief I hadn't realised I'd been holding in for goodness how long.

Exhausted from all the running and the worrying and the bleeding and the fighting and the begging and the crying, I collapse into Ward's body, my eyelids drooping. Already I slot perfectly with him, our bodies fitting together like the pieces of a jigsaw. My hand lands on his waist, and though he's still soundly asleep, his arm snakes around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. It's nice.

He's also half naked.


	27. Intoxicating Touch

"You'll be safe here, my baby."

Her voice was soft like treacle, and her touch was like velvet, that much I remember. It's the only thing I remember.

I was warm, and I was safe. A cotton blanket encased me, and the calming smell of daisies lingers in my nose. I smile, and wrap myself further into the reassuring fabric. I don't know how long I remain like this - cosy - but it's pleasant, and I'm not going to complain. However, like all things, it doesn't last, and the surge of bitter air descends on me faster than I would have wanted to. I hear my own stifling cries of insurgency, and they sound almost foreign, as though they couldn't possibly be coming from me. Childlike almost. Then, peering up out of my warm confines, I spot a balding figure looking down upon me, his glasses slipping down his podgy nose. I can't make out features, but I can hear ramblings, mutterings.

"Another one . . . poor kid . . . can't keep . . . "

He sounded exasperated, almost sympathetic. I watched as his hands reached out to me, pulling me up to his embrace. I was no bigger than the palm of his hand, which was odd. I would have sworn I was bigger than that. The blanket is still wrapped around me, but the smell of chamomile is fading now that I'm being lifted out into the open. Smoke is what fills my senses now.

The man clambers down from the truck we were both in, and calls out to a kind faced passerby, who is struggling with his own baby. I don't hear their exchange of words, I just feel the exchange of touch, as I'm passed between the men. I look up at the man, curiously, who has a straw coloured beard peppered with flecks of silver. Through his beard he smiles reassuringly at me.

"Now what's your name, petal?" As he spoke he spotted the name stitched into my blanket, the word JOHNSON marked out firmly in black. "Johnson? I'm afraid I don't know a Johnson."

He taps my nose with his finger, and I giggle. Then, as we continue walking down the street, he looks down at me again, and grins. "You smell of daisies, petal," and then he chuckles. "Or should I call you Daisy? Daisy Johnson."

The rest is a blur.

The light padding of raindrops on the roof of our cave are what pull me towards consciousness. My eyes flutter open, and my sense of security vanishes. I'm not back in District 12, I'm not at home, I'm not with Lincoln and his father. I'm in a dim, dark, damp cave, the bare skin on my stomach and hands freezing, and the air is tainted with the unmistakable scent of blood. The haggard, drained face of a young man appears beside me, and after the initial jolt of shock, I feel better at the mere sight of him.

"Hey," he says, a grin spreading across his face. "Good to see your eyes again."

I don't want to blush, but I do. "How long have I been out?"

"Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening, and you were passed out next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he replies, grimly. I watches his eyes trail across the gash on my forehead. Gingerly, expecting the worst, my hand reaches up to run my fingers along the cut. Grant must have cleaned it whilst I was asleep, and put some of my ointment on, as it no longer felt quite as sore as it did. "I bandaged your cuts too, I hope you don't mind; it meant taking off your . . . um . . . "

I look down at my legs, and spot that I was in just a pair of my panties, though Grant had tried to keep my modesty intact by covering it with the tattered remains of his jacket. I smiled appreciatively. This simple gesture leaves me feeling dizzy. He holds up a bottle of water for me to drink from, which I accept, thirstily.

"You seem better," I say, dabbing my mouth with he back of my sleeve, my throat no longer feeling quite so itchy.

"Much better," he agrees, and he certainly looks and sounds it. He can keep his eyes open now. "Whatever it was you shot me with; it's done the trick. By this morning all the swelling in my leg had gone down."

He doesn't seem at all angry about me lying to him about leaving him, but I expect that he's only waiting to scold me for it when I'm not quite so beaten up. At the moment, he's all gentleness.

"Have you eaten?" I ask him, when the silence starts to creep in.

"I'm ashamed to admit I ate the last three pieces of rabbit you had last night," he answers, in a small voice.

"No, no, that's good. You need to get your strength up. I can go hunting soon anyway."

"Promise me not too soon, though. You're in bad shape. Just let me take care of you this time."

Scarlet rises up to my cheeks again, and I can no longer meet Grant's eyes. It's funny, I'm no longer nervous about pretending to love this boy, I'm nervous in general. The little things he does, like the brush of his fingertips across my forearm as he checks the bandages which send shivers up and down my body, I'm slowly starting to pick up on, and be far more aware of then I had been. I was also far more conscious of _him_ general, for example the way his body looks underneath all those clothes, or the way he would smile in different ways, depending on the occasion. I was more aware of myself too, making sure I had no loose strands of hair sticking out, or that dirt wasn't clinging to the underside of my nails.

Why did I suddenly care so much? Care about what I looked like, what he looked like, how he looked at me, whether he looked at me. It was absurd.

Grant reaches out and traces his finger along the crescent moon shaped cut on my face. His touch is electrifying, and I can't help but gasp. I raise my head, and force myself to look at him. His features are soft, and he's smiling not with his lips, but his eyes, and it sends both my heart racing, and my nerves through the roof.

"You know, I've never seen you without a marked face, not truly," he whispers. "Bruises, cuts, scars; you're never unscathed. Yet somehow, I've never thought you any less beautiful."

God, why did he have to be so poetic? It'd be easier to bury my attraction for him if he just spoke like a damn normal person. _Wait_ , I think to myself. _Attraction_? Oh no, no, no. I mean, of course I knew Grant was attractive - I'd have to blind not to have noticed, but I'd never admitted it beforehand.

Now, I'm staring into his eyes, and they're such an enticing shade of chestnut that I'm afraid that I'm going to do or say something I'll regret if I don't look away. Soon.

I pull away from his touch, regrettably, and start to fiddle with my hands, scraping the dirt from underneath each nail. I've started to shake, and I can't tell if it's because of the cold, or something else. I look around the little cave, though there's nothing to see but pitch black. The baby's cry echoes through my mind again, and I shudder when I remember the woman's words;

 _"_ _You'll be safe here, my baby."_

"I had a dream last night. It was about my mother," I say, in a small voice.

"You remember her?" Grant asks, astonished.

I shake my head, smiling sadly. "No, not all. I think I can remember being put into that Peacekeeper's truck, and being found. And I think I remember being given to Beale."

"That's extraordinary," he tells me, an astounded expression on his face, running a hand through his hair.

I nervously laugh. "I mean, it can't really be a memory. I was barely a month old - well, I don't know how old I was. I wasn't long born. There's no way I can remember anything that early on."

Grant locks his fingers with mine, to ease the shaking, and comfortingly rubs his finger across my knuckles.

"I think I can remember being named, isn't that strange? I recall my parents arguing whether I should be called Grant, after my grandfather, or Douglas, after the politician. They couldn't make their minds up, so they chose both. I can picture my mother, flustered and exhausted, holding me in her arms, refusing point blank to have a child affiliated with 'that rotten, duck-duck-goose child's play that is politics'. Little did she know father was going to run for mayor nine years later!"

I laugh, though this time it's genuine. I'm grateful, truly, for Grant making me smile.

"I can't imagine not knowing who my parents are," he mutters, shaking his head. "Not knowing anything about them."

"It hurts a lot. For so long I've wondered what they're like. Whether I'm of Asian heritage because of my mom, or because of my dad. I don't know these things, nobody does. Apparently, there are no Asians in District 12, and nobody can remember there ever being any. Where did I come from then? Who brought me into this world? Who left me in that truck? Why did the people who were supposed to love me more than anybody else in the world, leave men a place like District 12?"

I don't notice the tear rolling down my cheek, until Grant wipes it off delicately with his finger. I flinch, though I don't know why. This confuses Grant a little, who cocks his head at me.

"Sorry, are my hands cold?" he asks, in such a gentle and caring tone.

I shake my head, and reach out to hold them. "No, no, it's just . . . it's just . . . "

I can't seem to form words, and I'm not sure I want to let out what I want to say anyway. Grant, his expression so peaceful and inviting, smiles ardently at me. It's in this moment that I know, somehow, through all the deceit and the false pretences, I've managed to let Grant worm his way into my heart, and I can't cut him loose. I have fallen for him, deeper and harder than I though possible, and the way he's been behaving, with the frequent kisses and the tentative touches, a part of me knows that he's not been acting.

"What is it?"

"You've just been so nice to me, nicer than I deserve," I begin, half hoping he won't hear me. "I didn't come into the Games expecting to meet _anyone_ I would grow to like, let alone grow to care for as much as I do you. What you've been through lately, with your leg, it's made me realise that I wouldn't be able to cope if you . . . if you . . . if you were to die. I think that's because I like you, Grant. I'm in love with you."

Not a sound came out of Grant, and at first I was afraid I'd crossed some unspoken barrier.

Then he grinned. He grinned wider than I believed possible. He takes my face in both of his hands, careful not to touch my gash, and presses his forehead to mine. Butterflies encase my stomach, but I was too elated to feel nervous at all. My hands find their place on his chest, and I could feel his heart hammering through the thin material of his shirt.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," he whispers, ticking my nose with his breath.

We kiss, and I realise that, technically, it's our first real and proper one, where I haven't been inclined to do so by the pressure of the cameras. I am allowed to fully appreciate what a good kisser he is, and for the first time I notice how well our lips fit together. One of his hands slip to the back of my neck, and he holds me so close to him that there isn't an inch between us.

When we're both running low on air, he pulls away and stares at my face intently, a unmoving smile playing on his lips, lips I was craving.

"I love you too," he says, before resuming where we left off.

Grant is so intoxicating, I forget where we were, and who we were facing, losing myself to his touch.


	28. IMPORTANT

**A.N: IMPORTANT**

 **okay, so I have an update ready to post in literally like half an hour, i just wanted to ask you guys a quick question;**

 **WOULD ANY OF YOU BE INTERESTED IN CO-OWNING AN AGENTS OF SHIELD ACCOUNT ON TUMBLR**

 **DEDICATED TO WRITING AND POSTING AOS ONE-SHOTS?**

 **i assume because you're reading this you're somewhat interested in agents of shield, and you enjoy reading fan fiction. great, me too. maybe, just maybe, you're a writer too, or even just a tumblr blogger. now, i'm relatively new to tumblr - i haven't even started the account yet. if you're interested, go to my instagram account girlontheindex, and dm me. also, whilst you're there, give me a follow. you know you want to.**

 **thank you for being patient. i really do appreciate it. love you!**


	29. One and A Half Pairs of Legs

**A.N: Thank you for being so very patient, I appreciate it so much!**

For once I didn't feel ashamed taking my clothes off in front of Grant. I did not feel as though I was being dishonest, or floozy, or scandalous. My underwear stayed on the whole time, as did his; we didn't dare reveal any more of our bodies to the cameras. This was enough, for now, just to bare this much to each other. Just to hold each other and embrace each other like this. Our bodies were flush against each others, Grant's heartbeat hammering against my ribcage. This was maybe the closest they could physically get, as long as they're in the Games.

He was warm, and I was warm. Together we were ablaze. For somebody so muscular, and so strong, he had a delicate touch. His hands never roamed anywhere they shouldn't of, and his lips never strayed from my own. I wish that he wasn't so conserved. On more than one occasion my lips would wander his neck, or a rather sultry sounding gasp would escape my lips, and Grant would mutter in my ear 'not here'.

I'd tilt my head, and pout, but I'd understand. I don't know if I'd be able to return home with a straight face knowing they'd all seen me _with Grant._ This would be bad enough. Katya, Lincoln; would they be ashamed of me? Are they turning their heads now, away from the screen, embarrassed to see me so intimate with another boy? What about Lincoln? Would he feel betrayed? Oh God, what about Lincoln?

Lost in thought for a mere few seconds, I don't even realise that I mumble into Grant's lips his name.

 _Lincoln._

He pulls away, not looking me in the eyes, and I can tell I've made things awkward. Fortunately, I'm certain the cameras couldn't have picked up on what I said. Or at least, I'm almost certain . . .

"I was just thinking about him - " I say, my words coming out faster than my ability to comprehend what I'm spilling out.

"Of course you were," Grant mutters, turning his head, his jaw tightening.

I feel so uncomfortable sat sprawled across his lap, knowing that I said another boy's name whilst kissing the the one I love. I feel awful, and my cheeks flush. I hoist myself to my feet, and glance over to the corner of the cave where I had spotted the camera some time ago.

"I don't need to explain myself now," I mumble, pulling on my clothes. As I shrug on my shirt, the wound splits open, and blood floods through the bandage. I wince, and I tug at the material which clings to my flesh. I look over at Grant, who's propping himself up against the wall, flickering between me and the camera. "I'm just going to wash, I'll be back soon. Need anything?"

He shakes his head, and before I turn to leave, I plant a kiss on Grant's forehead.

The cold air is almost invigorating, and it is literally a breath of fresh air.

I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I knew anything about relationships, and love, and Grant Ward. Thinking back to before the Games, and before the reaping, I had barely given Grant a second thought. Of course I'd noticed him, as did every other girl, and I sympathised for him at his mother's funeral, but I'd never really stopped to think about _him._ Who he was, what he was interested in, who he was interested in - that sort of thing.

I'd never loved anybody the way I loved Grant. Katya I love like a sister, Jem and Buckley like brothers. Beale was as close to a father as I had got, before he died. Lincoln, now that was difficult. Before the kiss, I'd thought that we were best friends, and nothing more.

Though I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered what it would be like if we had shared that kiss months, maybe even years before the reaping.

I spot a shallow pool of water, deep enough so I can clean, but not so deep that I'd actually have to swim anywhere. I haven't got my shoes on, so I dip my toe in. I gasp, but gladly. The water is cool, and revitalising. I perch my self on a rock, and gently pull off my trousers. Why did I even bothered to put them back on? I bite my lip, bracing myself for the stinging sensation as I washed the grime and the grit out of the cut, unwrapping the bandage off of my leg. Curling my lip up at the sight of the split flesh, swollen and scarlet, I begin to wash the blood off of my leg. I wince because it hurts, though after a while it starts to feel quite soothing.

I lay there, resting on a rock, my legs dangling in the water, as that was all I could bring myself to submerge into.

I really wasn't afraid of much. The water, and loosing the ones I love. That's it, that's all. The prospect of my own death doesn't terrify me in the slightest, whereas the mere possibility of Katya, or Lincoln, or Jem, or Buckley, or even Grant, dying, that was enough to rip my heart out of my chest.

I've been called ridiculous for hating water, but I think that's unfair, as I have good reason to despise rivers, lakes, and the sea. That's more than can be said of people who are afraid of trains when they've never been on one, or afraid of heights when they've barely lifted two feet off the ground.

I guess the same can be said about me and my newly professed love for Grant. Sure I've known him since I was a little girl, around twelve years now, but I'd barely spoke two words to him until the day of the reaping. Could I have ever thought Grant Ward to be my first kiss, my first love? No, probably not. In all honesty, he was the last person I could have imagined kissing. But that was the irony of it all. The Games was designed to keep us in line, keeping us apart from one another, fuelling our hatred of the other districts to prevent us all banding together to host another mutiny.

Just like my fear of water however, I have good reason to love Grant. For instance, when he convinced his mother to give us that dinner that surely saved some lives. And now, he's saved me. He's here, and he's present, my one constant source of support through all of this. Of course it doesn't hurt that he's extremely good-looking.

Suddenly, just when I'm getting used to the water and the cool breeze, I hear a cannon go off. Scooping up my clothes from off of the oyster grey rock, I bound to my feet and hurry inside the little cave. A million and one thoughts racing through my brain, - thoughts of paranoia mainly - I envisioned Quinn and Kara breaking through the tree line, glinting axes and swords help above their heads, blazing, bloodthirsty expressions of pure loathing painted on their pasty faces.

I'm so encased in concern, and curiosity about who that cannon fire signalled the death of, I barely have enough wits about me to look where I'm going. This causes me to collide with a figure, a rather tall and toned figure, who cups my mouth before I scream. Struggling against their unyielding grip, I'm surprised by how familiar the hands feel against my bare skin.

"Calm down, it's only me," he whispers in my ear, sending not only a surge of relief to course through my previously tense body, but a shudder down my spine.

Grant had managed to stand by himself, though barely putting enough pressure on his leg to even consider taking another step. He has somehow managed to slip on his trousers, but had yet to put on his shirt. Who would I be to complain about that? The fragments of daybreak that broke through the gaps in the vines cast enough light so that I was able to see the grim expression on his face.

"What is it? Is there someone out there?" he demands, almost imprudently. It was certainly blunt. I wondered where all the tentativeness had disappeared to, when I remember my little slip-up. I doubt that Grant will be in a rush to forget that anytime soon.

I shake my head. "No, nobody's out there," I tell him. "Or at least, I didn't see anybody. You heard the cannon though, right?"

"We'll find out who the poor soul is at midnight tonight," he sighs, sliding down the wall to sit back down. He groans and he grunts, and I know that though the ointment had prevented him from death, it was doing a poor job of preventing any pain.

"Hardly a poor soul," I point out, putting one foot after the other through my trousers. The public had had their fill of my bare skin for today. That's enough now. "Think about who's left; Quinn, Kara, that sneaky redhead, that boy who teamed up with the Careers, though he's probably not a boy, in fact he's more than likely my age, from 4, and . . . and Raina."

My voice breaks a little when I consider the likelihood that the cannon was dedicated to Raina, the girl who had previously saved my life. Without her, I wouldn't be here, and neither would be Grant. District 12 would have lost two more children once more, giving Quinn and Kara more of a chance to survive together, the two people who least deserved to live.

"I can't wait any longer," I finally say, after what feels like a decade of staring into my empty hands.

Grant furrows an eyebrow. "Wait for what?"

"For somebody else to decide if we live, or if we die," I answer, exasperated. "That's what we're doing, isn't it? Sitting around in this cave for somebody to to find us, or for the others to pick one another off, finishing the Game off for us. We both know that's not how it works, and that's not how we're going to win."

Grant's expression is odd. It's as though he's considering arguing, but decides against it, instead staring silently at me.

"You just stay here, and I have an - " I begin, until he cuts me off.

"What do you mean 'I stay here'?" he asks, scrambling, slowly but surely, to his feet. "I'm coming with you."

"You can barely walk, Grant, I can't expect you to traipse after me in the forest, hunting down Quinn," I explain. "Let me go find him. I'll be alright."

"And what am I to do if I hear a cannon go off? Just shrug and pray that it's somebody else?" he cries, raising his voice so that it starts to reverberate off of the cave walls and pierce my eardrums. So long of almost silence, the slightest change in volume was like a foreign language to me. "No, I'm coming with you. That way - "

"That way I can watch you die? Please, just stay here. That way I know you're not going to get hurt," I plead, though I'm starting to believe that trying to fight him was going to grow tiresome very quickly.

"Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Two sets of hands are better than one. Two pairs of legs are better than one."

" _One and a half pairs of legs_ ," I correct.

"Fine, a half. But a half more than you'd have if you went alone."

Neither of us dared to look away as we bore into the other's eyes, waiting for one of us to break. However, we both possessed more stubbornness than sense, and realised that it was utterly hopeless to expect one another to break. He was either going to come with, or I was going to stay here. Only one of us is going to be satisfied in either scenario, we just had to pick who. Fortunately, Grant was the less determined of us both, and easily succumbed to my pouting.

"I'm this close to drugging you again and ditching your ass here," I mutter under my breath, as Grant slips on his shirt, and gathers up our belongings.


End file.
